IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


1.1 


Uit2A    |2.5 
tti  i&i   122 

Ul     ttt 


lU 

itt 

u 


140 


iysiiMU4 


^^ 


^ 


7, 


/ 


.■»* 


^^ 


'/ 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


93  WfST  MAIN  STRUT 

WI»STIR,N.Y.  14StO 

(716)  •72-4503 


4^ 


4% 

/j 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadiiin  Institute  for  Historical  l^icroraproductiona  /  inatitut  Canadian  de  microraproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notas  tachniquaa  at  bibliographiquaa 


Tha  inatituta  haa  attamptad  to  obtain  tha  baat 
original  copy  availabia  for  filming.  Faaturaa  of  this 
copy  which  may  ba  bibliographically  uniqua, 
which  may  altar  any  of  tha  imagas  in  tha 
raproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  changa 
tha  usual  mathod  of  filming,  ara  chackad  balow. 


D 


D 


D 


D 
D 


D 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couvartura  da  couleur 


I     I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couvertura  endommogia 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurte  et/ou  pelliculAe 


I     I   Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  gtegraphiquas  en  couleur 

Coloured  inic  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  iiiustrationa/ 
Pianchea  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
RailA  avec  d'autrea  documanta 

Tight  binding  may  causa  ahadowa  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  re  liure  serrAe  peut  cauaar  da  I'ombre  ou  da  la 
diatortion  ie  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  aJoutAas 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissant  dana  la  texte, 
mala,  loraqua  cela  Ateit  poaaibie,  coa  pagea  n'ont 
pea  titk  fiimtea. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  la  malileur  exemplaira 
qu'il  lui  a  hxh  poaaibie  de  aa  procurer.  Lea  details 
da  cet  exemplaira  qui  aont  peut-Atra  uniquea  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dana  la  mAthoda  normala  da  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


n~n   Coloured  pagea/ 


D 


Pagea  da  couleur 

Pagea  damaged/ 
Pagea  andommagtea 

Pagea  reatorad  and/oi 

Pagea  reataurtea  et/ou  peliicultea 

Pagea  diacoloured,  atainad  or  foxw 
Pagea  dteoloriea,  tachettea  ou  piqutea 


r~n   Pagea  damaged/ 

I — I   Pagea  reatorad  and/or  laminated/ 

I — I   Pagea  diacoloured,  atainad  or  foxed/ 


□    Pagea  detached/ 
Pagea  ditachtea 

0Showthrough/ 
Tranaparance 


Tranaparance 

Quality  of  prin 

Quality  in^gala  de  I'impreaaion 

Includaa  aupplamentary  matarii 
Comprand  du  materiel  auppMmantaira 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  diaponible 


I     I    Quality  of  print  variaa/ 

I     I    Includaa  aupplamentary  material/ 

|~~|    Only  edition  available/ 


Pagea  wholly  or  partially  obacurad  by  errata 
aiipa,  tiaauaa,  etc.,  have  bean  ref limed  to 
enaure  the  beat  poaaibie  image/ 
Lea  pagea  totalament  ou  partlallement 
obacurciea  par  un  fauillar  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  tx%  filmiea  A  nouveau  de  fapon  k 
obtenir  la  mailleure  Image  poaaibie. 


Th« 
tot 


Th< 
pot 
ofi 
filn 


Ori 
be( 
the 
sio 
oxY 
firs 
sio 
or 


Th( 
shi 
Tl^ 
wh 

Ma 
difi 
ant 
be( 
rigl 
req 
me 


Thia  item  la  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  eat  film*  au  taux  da  rMuctlon  indiquA  ci-deaaoua. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


V 


12X 


18X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  hes  been  reproduced  thenks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Netionel  Librery  of  Censds 


L'exempiaire  fiim6  fut  reproduit  grAce  A  ia 
gtnArositA  de: 

BibliothAque  nationala  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quaiity 
possibie  considering  the  condition  and  legibiiity 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  lest  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  imsges  suivsntes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  ia  nettetA  de  l'exempiaire  f  iimA,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
fiimage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimte  sent  fiimds  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  ia 
dernl6re  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  dtre 
filmfo  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diff Arents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  ciichA,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas.  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

S 

6 

\ 


'   [Ma^t  1831. 

VALUABLE   WORKS 

PUBLI8HB0  BT 

J.  &  J.  HARPER,  82  CLIFF-STREET,  NEW-YORK. 


THE  TTTgTORY  OP  MODERN 
EUROPE,  from  the  rise  of  the 
Modem  Kingdoms  to  the  present 

E)riod.  By  Willum  Ruoseli, 
L.D.,  and  William  Jonks,  Esq. 
With  Annotations  by  an  Ameri- 
can.    In  3  vols.  Svo. 

THE  HISTORICAL  WORKS  of 
the  Rev.  WILLIAM  ROBERT- 
SON, D.D. ;  comprising  his  HIS- 
TORY of  AMERICA;  CHARLES 
v.;  SCOTLAND,  and  INDIA. 
In  3  vols.  8vu.  with  Plates. 

GIBBON'S  HISTORY  OF  THE 
DECLINE  AND  FALL  OF  THE 
ROMAN  EMPIRE.  In  4  vols. 
8vo.  With  Plates. 

The  alwve  worki  (RusKll'a,  Robertson's,  and 
Oil>l>ori>s)  are  stereotyped  and  printed 
uniformly.  Great  pains  hive  been  taken 
to  render  them  perfect  in  ever^  respect. 
They  are  decidt^dly  )he  liett  edilioni  ever 
pobliihed  in  this  country. 

ENGLISH  SYNONYMES,  with 
copious  Illustrations  and  Explan- 
ations, drawn  from  the  best  Wri- 
ters. By  Gkorgk  Cradb,  MA. 
A  new  Edition,  enlarged.  Svo. 
[Stereotyped.] 

LIFE  OF  LOR!)  BYRON.  By 
Thomas ;Mo<iRK,  Esq.  In  2  vols. 
Svo.    \A  ith  a  Portrait. 

HOOPER'S  MEDICAL  DICTION- 
ARY. From  the  lattt  Ix)n(lon 
Editio  I.  With  Additions,  by  Sa- 

Ml'BL  AKBRLY,M.D.    Svo. 

COOPER'S  SURGICAL  DIC- 
TIONARY. In  2  vols.  Svo. 
Greatly  enlarged.   [Stereotyped.] 

GOOD'S  (Dr.JoHN  M  \so\)  STUDY 
OP  MEDICINE.  In  6  vols.  Svo. 
A  new  edition.  With  additions 
by  Samukl  Coopkr,  M.D. 

THE  BOOK  OF  NATURE ;  being 
a  popular  Illustration  ot  the  gene- 
ral Laws  and  Phenomena  of  Crea- 
tion, ice.  By  John  Masun  Good, 
M.D.  and  F.R.S.  Svo.  With  bis 
Ufb.    [Stweotyped.] 


DOMESTIC  DUTIES ;  or  Instruc- 
tions f o  Married  Ladies.  By  Mrs. 
William  Parkes.  12mo. 

ART  OF  INVIGORATING  and 
PROLONGING  LIFE.  By  Wil- 
liam KiTciiiNCR,  M.D.  ISmo. 
[Stereotyped.] 

THE  COOK'S  ORACLE,  AND 
HOUSEKEEPER'S  MANUAL. 
By  William  Kitchiner,  M.D. 
Adapted  to  the  American  Public. 
l2mo.    [Stereotyped.] 

GIBSON'S  SURVEYING.  Im- 
proved and  enlarged.  By  Jamu 
RvAN.    Svo. 

DAVIES'  SURVEYING.  Svo. 

SURVEYORS'  TABLES.  12mo. 

BROWN'S  DICTIONARY  of  the 
HOLY  BIBLE.  From  the  last 
genuine  Edinburgh  edition.   Svo. 

BROWN'S  (J.)  CONCORDANCE. 
Printed  on  Diamond  type,  in 
the  32mo.  form.     [Stereotyped.] 

SERMONS  Oxm'  IMPORTANT 
SUBJECTS,  by  the  Rev.  SAwiruL 
Davie  =i,  A.M ,  sometime  Presi- 
dent of  the  College  of  New-Jer- 
sey.   In  3  vols.  Svo. 

THE  WORKS  OF  THE  REV. 
JOHN  WESLEY,  A.M.  With 
his  Life.  Complete  in  10  vols. 
Svo.  From  the  last  London  Edi- 
tion.   With  a  Portrait. 

LETTERS  FROM  THE  ^GEAN. 
By  Jamks  Emuksdn,  Esq.  Svo. 

THE  LITERARY  REMAINS  OF 
THE  LATE  HENRY  NEELE, 

Author  of.the  "  Romance  of  His- 
tory," &c.&c.  Svo. 

RELIGIOUS  DISCOURSES.    By 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.  iSmo. 

LIVES  OF  THE  SIGNERS  OP 
THE  DECLARATION  OF  IN- 
DEPENDENCE. 12mo. 

SKETCHES  FROM  VENETIAN 
HiarORT.    3  vols.  ISmo. 


Works  Published  by  J,  Sf  J,  Harper, 


THE  HISTORY  OP  THE  JEWS, 
From  the  earliest  period  to  the  pre- 
sent time.  By  the  Rev.  H.  H.  Mil- 
man.  In  3  vols.  I8mo.  illustrated 
with  original  maps,  &c. 

THE  LIFE  OF  NAPOLEON  BUO- 
NAPARTE. By  .1.  G.  LfKKHAur, 
Esq.  With  copperplate  engraving!;!. 
2  Tols.  18mo. 

LIFE  OF  NELSON.  By  Robkiit 
SouTiiKV,  Esq.     With  a  portrait. 

THE  LIFE  OF  ALEXANDER 
THE  GREAT.  By  the  Rev.  J. 
WiLLiA.Ms.    With  a  map.  ISmo. 

NATURAL  HISTORY  OF  IN- 
SECTS. Illustrated  by  numerous 
engravings.  ISmo. 

THE  LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 
By  John  Galt,  Esq.  ISmo. 

THE    LIFE    OF    MOHAMMED, 

Founder  of  the  Religion  of  Islam, 
and  of  the  Empire  of  the  Saracens. 
By  the  Rev.  Gh:r>RaK  Bush,  A.M. 
With  a  plate.    ISmo. 

LETTERS  ON  DEMONOLOGY 
AND  WITCHCRAFT.  By  Sir 
Wai-tkk  Scott,  Bart.  ISmo. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  BIBLE.  By 
the  Rev.  G.  R.  Gmin.  In  2  vols. 
ISmo.with  maps  of  Palestine,  &,c. 

NARRATIVE  OF  DISCOVERY 
AND  ADVENTURE  IN  THE 
POLAR  SEAS  AND  REGIONS, 
with  Illustrations  of  their  Climate, 
Geology,  and  Natural  History;  and 
an  Account  of  the  Whale  Fishery. 
By  Professor  Lkslik,  Professor 
Jamkson,  and  Huuu  Mim<kay, 
Esq.    With  maps,  &u.  ISmo. 

LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  GEORGE 
IV.,  with  Anecdotes  of  Distin- 
guished Persons  of  the  last  Fitly 
Years.  By  the  Rev.  GertROK  Cim- 
LY.  With  a  portrait.  18mo.  New 
and  improved  edition. 

NARRATIVE  OF  DISCOVERY 
AND  ADVENTURE  IN  AFRl- 
CA,  from  the  earliest  ages  to  the 
present  time.  With  Illustrations 
of  the  Geology,  Mineralogy,  and 
.  Zoology.  By  Professor  J.\  m kson, 
Jamks  WiiiSON,  Esq.,  and  Hi'on 
Murray,  Esq.  With  a  map  and 
wood  engravings.  18mo 

HISTORY  OF  CHIVALRY  AND 
THE  CRUSADES.  By  G.  R. 
Jamks,  Esq.   18mo.,  with  a  plate 


LIVES  OF  EMINENT  PAINTERS 
AND  SCULPTORS.  By  Allah 
CuN  NINO  HAM,  Esq.  In  3  vols. 
ISmo.  with  portraits. 

FESTIVALS,  GAMES,  AND  A- 
MUSEMENTS,  Ancient  and  Mod- 
ern. By  lIoKATio  Smith.    18mo. 

LIF'E  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OP 
SCOTS.  By  IIknry  Glassford 
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MASSINGER'S  PLAYS.  Designed 
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PELHAM;  OR,  THE  ADVEN- 
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PAUL  CLIFFORD.  A  Novel.  In 
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THE  SIAMESE  TWINS.  By  the 
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AFFECTING  SCENES ;  bei^  Pas- 
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YOUTH  AND  MANHOOD  OP 
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Sold  by  Co 
White,  G 
Gngg,  To 
T.  Desilv 
Sons,  J.  J 
Bolbroo^ 


Harper's  Stereotype  Edition, 


THE 


LIFE    OF   LORD  BYRON. 


BY  JOHN  GALT,  ESQ. 


I      ■..•,    ••■c-> 


fieto4?otlt: 

PRINTED  BY  J.  *•  J.  HARPER,  82  CLIFF-ST. 

Sold  by  Ck>llins  dc  Hannay,  CoUini  &  Co.,  G.  &  C.  A;  H.  Carvill,  and 
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1830.  -   . 


3  S'/ 


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no  striki] 


PREFACE, 


The  letters  and  journals  of  Lord  Byron,  with  the 
interwoven  notes  of  Mr.  Moore,  should  have  su- 
perseded the  utility  of  writing  any  other  account 
of  that  extraordinary  man.  The  compilation  has, 
however,  not  proved  satisfactory,  and  the  conse- 
quence, almost  of  necessity,  is,  that  many  other 
biographical  portraits  of  the  noble  poet  may  yet 
be  expected.  But  will  they  materially  alter  the  ge- 
neral effect  of  Mr.  Moore's  work  ?  I  think  not ; 
and  have  accordingly  confined  myself,  as  much  as 
practicable,  consistent  with  the  end  in  view,  to  an 
outline  of  his  Lordship's  intellectual  features — a 
substratum  only  of  the  general  mass  of  his  cha* 
racter. 


If  Mr.  Moore  has  evinced  too  eager  an  anxiety  to 
set  out  the  best  qualities  of  his  friend  to  the  bright- 
est advantage,  it  ought  to  be  recollected  that  no 
less  was  expected  of  him.  The  spirit  of  the  times 
ran  strong  against  Lord  B}nron,  as  a  man ;  and  it 
was  natural  that  Mr.  Moore  should  attempt  to 
stem  the  tide.  I  respect  the  generosity  with  which 
he  has  executed  his  task.  I  think  that  he  has  made 
no  striking  misrepresentation ;  I  even  discern  but 

X2 


:  I 


I  i 


1^  PREFACE. 

little  exaggeration,  although  he  has  ainidbly  chosen 
to  paint  oiUy  the  sunny  side :  the  limning  is  cor- 
rect ;  but  the  likeness  is  too  radiant  and  conciliatory. 

There  is  one  point  with  respect  to  the  subse- 
quent pages,  on  which  I  think  it  unnecessary  to 
offer  any  explanation — the  separation  of  Lord  and 
Lady  Byron.  I  have  avoided,  as  much  as  I  well 
could,  every  thing  like  the  expression  of  an  opi- 
nion on  the  subject.  Mr.  Moore  has  done  all  in 
his  power  to  excuse  his  Lordship ;  and  Lady  Byron 
has  protested  against  the  correctness  of  his  state- 
ment, without,  however,  assigning  any  reason  for 
her  own  conduct,  calculated  to  satisfy  the  public, 
who  have  been  too  indecorously,  I  conceive,  made 
parties  to  the  question. 

But  I  should  explain,  that  in  omitting  to  notice  the 
rancour  with  which  Lord  Byron  was  pursued  by 
Dr.  Southey,  I  have  always  considered  his  Lord- 
ship as  the  first  aggressor.  The  affair  is  therefore 
properly  comprehended  in  the  general  observations 
respecting  the  enemies  whom  the  satire  of  English 
Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers  provoked.  I  may  add 
farther,  in  explanation,  that  I  did  not  conceive  any 
particular  examination  w  as  required  of  his  Lord- 
ship's minor  poems,  nor  of  his  part  in  the  contro- 
versy concerning  the  poetical  genius  of  Pope. 

Considering  how  much  the  conduct  of  Lord 
Byron  has  been  in  question,  perhaps  I  ought  to 
state,  that  I  never  stood  on  such  a  footing  with  his 


illi- 


PREFACE. 


Vll 


Lordship,  as  to  inspire  me  with  any  sentiment 
likely  to  bias  my  judgment.  I  am  indebted  to  him 
for  no  otlier  favours  than  those  which  a  well-bred 
person  of  rank  bestows  in  the  interchange  of  civility 
on  a  man  who  is  of  none ;  and  that  I  do  not  under- 
value the  courtesy  with  which  he  ever  treated  me, 
will  probably  be  apparent.  I  am  gratified  ^vith  the 
recollection  of  having  known  a  person  so  cele- 
brated, and  I  believe  myself  incapable  of  intentional 
injustice.  I  can  only  regret  the  impression  he  made 
upon  me,  if  it  shall  be  thought  I  have  spoken  of 
him  with  prejudice. 


It  will  be  seen  by  a  note,  relative  to  a  circum- 
stance which  took  place  in  Lord  Byron's  conduct 
towards  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  that  Mr.  Hobhonse 
has  enabled  me  to  give  two  versions  of  an  affair  not 
regarded  by  some  of  that  lady's  relations  as  having 
been  marked  by  generosity ;  but  I  could  not  ex- 
punge from  the  text  what  I  had  stated,  having  no 
reason  to  doubt  the  authenticity  of  my  information. 
The  reader  is  enabled  to  form  his  own  opinion  on 
the  subject. 

I  cannot  conclude  without  offering  my  best  ac- 
knowledgments to  the  learned  and  ingenious  Mr. 
Nicolas,  for  the  curious  genealogical  fact  of  a  baton 
sinister  being  in  the  escutcheon  of  the  Byrons  of 
Newstead.  Lord  Byron,  in  his  pride  of  birth,  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  aware  of  this  stain. 

N.B.  Since  this  work  was  completed,  a  small 


'Km 


VIU 


PREFACE. 


pamphlet,  judiciously  suppressed,  has  been  placed 
in  my  hands,  dated  from  the  Chateau  de  Blonai, 
20th  August,  1825,  in  which  Mr.  Medwin  vindi- 
cates the  correctness  of  tliose  statements  in  his 
conversations  with  Lord  Byron,  wliich  Mr.  Hob- 
house  had  impugned  in  The  Westminster  Keview. 
Had  I  seen  it  before  expressing  my  opinion  of  Mr. 
Medwin's  publication,  I  am  not  sure  it  would  have 
in  any  degree  affected  that  opinion,  which  was 
formed  without  reference  to  the  errors  imputed  by 
Mr.  Hobhouse. 

London,  12th  August,  1830. 


Introduct 

CHAPTI 

Mother 

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bridge— 

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English 
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iKBiiHHHMI 


CONTENTS. 


It 


Introduction 13 

CHAPTER  I.— Ancient  Descent— Pedigree— Birth— Troubles  of  his 
Mother— Early  Education— Accession  to  the  Title 16 

CHAPTER  n.— Moral  Effects  of  local  Scenery ;  a  Peculiarity  in  Taste 
— Early  Love — ^Impressions  and  Traditions 39 

CHAPTER  m.— Arrival  at  Newstead— Find  it  in  Ruins— The  old  Lord 
and  his  Beetles — The  Earl  of  Carlisle  becomes  the  Guardian  of  Byron 
— ^The  Poet's  acute  Sense  of  Icis  own  deformed  Foot — His  Mother  con- 
sults a  Fortuneteller 33 

CHAPTER  rv.— Placed  at  Harrow— Progress  there— Love  for  Miss 
Chaworth— His  Reading— Oratorical  Powers 4o 

CHAPTER  v.— Character  at  Harrow— Poetical  Predilections  at  Cam- 
bridge—His Hours  of  Idleness 47 

CHAPTER  VI.— Criticism  of  the  Edinburgh  Review 51 

CHAPTER  Vn.— Effect  of  the  Criticism  in  the  Edinburgh  Review- 
English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers— His  Satiety— Intention  to 
travel— Publishes  his  Satire— Talies  his  Seat  in  the  House  of  Lords 
— ^Departs  for  Lisbon;  thence  to  Gibraltar 60 

CHAPTER  VHI.— First  Acquaintance  with  Byron— Embark  together 
—The  Voyage 65 

CHAPTER  IX.— Dinner  at  the  Ambassador's  at  Cagliari— Opera— Dis- 
aster of  Byron  at  Malta— Mrs.  Spencer  Smith 70 

CHAPTER  X.— Sails  (Vom  Malta  to  Prevesa— Lands  at  Patras— Sails 
again— Passes  Ithaca — Arrival  at  Prevesa— Salona—Joannina — 
Zitza 75 

CHAPTER  XI.— Halt  at  Zitza— The  River  Acheron— Greek  Wine— A 
Greek  Chariot— Arrival  at  Tepellen^- The  Vizier's  Palace 81 

CHAPTER  xn.— Audience  appointed  with  All  Pashaw- Description 
of  the  Vizier's  Person— My  Audience  of  the  Vixier  of  the  Morea. .  86 


)i;  i 


CONTENTS, 


\  I 


'^ir 


'r! 


CHAPTER  Xm.— The  Effect  of  Ali  Pashaw^s  Character  on  Loid 
Byron— Sketch  of  the  Career  of  Ali,  and  the  Perseverance  with  which 
he  pursued  the  Objects  of  his  Ambition 01 

CHAPTER  XIV.— Leave  Joannina  for  Prevesa— Land  at  Fanari— Al 
bania— Byron's  Character  of  the  Inhabitants 90 

CHAPTER  XV.— Leave  Utralkee— Dangerous  Pass  in  the  Woods— 
Catoona— Quarrel  between  the  Guard  and  Primate  of  the  Village — 
Makala— Goui'i — Missolonghi — Parnassus 101 

CHAPTER  XVI.— Vostizza— Battle  of  Lepanto— Parnassus— Livadia— 
Cave  ot  Tropbonius— The  Fountains  of  Oblivion  and  Memory — Ghee- 
ron^a-Thebes— Athens 105 

CHAPTER  XVII.— Athens— Byron's  Character  of  the  modem  Athe- 
nians— ^Visit  to  Elensis— Visit  to  the  Caverns  at  Vary  and  Kerat^a — 
Lost  in  the  Labyrinths  of  the  latter 110 

CHAPTER  XVin.— Proceed  firom  Eerat^a  to  Cape  Colonna— Associa- 
tions  connected  with  the  Spot— Second  Hearing  of  the  Albanians — 
Journey  to  Marathon— Effect  of  his  Adventures  on  the  Mind  of  the 
Poet— Return  toAthens— I  join  theTravellers  there— Maid  of  Athens  115 

CHAPTER  XIX.— Occupation  at  Athens— Mount  Pentilicus— We  de- 
scend into  the  Caverns— Return  to  Athens — A  Greek  Contract  of  Mar- 
riage— Various  Athenian  and  Albanian  Superstitions — Effect  of  their 
Impression  on  the  Genius  of  the  Poet 119 

CHAPTER  XX.— Local  Pleasures— Byron's  Grecian  Poems— His  De- 
parture from  Athens— Description  of  Evening  in  the  Corsair— The 
Opening  of  the  Giaour— State  of  Patriotic  Feeling  then  in  Greece — 
Bmymar— Change  in  Lord  Byron's  Manners 125 

CHAPTER  XXL— Smyrna— The  Sport  of  the  Djerid— Journey  to 
Ephesus— The  dead  City— The  desolate  Country— The  Ruins  and 
Obliteration  of  the  Temple— The  slight  Impression  of  all  on  Byron  131 


CHAP! 

range 
Byror 
Mr.R 

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of  his 
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Speed 
tionar 

CHAPT 

— Intn 
Kindn< 

CHAPT 

dences 

CHAPT] 

Milban 
Ghost- 
Embar 

CHAPTE 

of  his  H 
dents  o 
moral  I 
of  Shall 

CHAPTE 
Plain  of 

CHAPTE 

the  Glac 
— SimiU 
pressed 


CHAPTER  XXII.— Embarks  for  Constantinople— Touches  at  Tenedos— 
Visits  Alexandria  Troas— The  Trojan  Plain— Swims  the  Hellespont — 
Arrival  at  Constantinople 130 

CHAPTER  XXni.— Constantinople— Description— The  Dogs  and  the 
Dead— Landed  at  Tophana— The  rnasterless  Dogs— The  Slave-Market 
—The  Seraglio— The  Defects  in  the  Description 143 

CHAPTER  XXIV.— Dispute  with  the  Ambassador— Reflections  on 
Byron's  Pride  of  Rank— Abandons  his  Oriental  'I'ravels— Re-embarks 
in  the  Salsette — The  Dagger-Scene— Zea— Returns  to  Athens— iTour 
in  the  Morea— Dangerous  Illness— Return  to  Athens— The  Adventure 
OD  wbicb  the  Giaour  is  founded 149 


CHAPTE] 

Venice— 
Conditio 
metaphy 

CHAPTEI 

cioll.... 

CHAPTEI 
Part  in 
poetical  1 
phecy  of 


CONTENTS. 


Xi 


CHAPTER  XXV.— Arrival  in  London— Mr.  Dallas's  Patronage— Ar- 
ranges for  the  Publication  of  Childe  Haroltl— The  Death  of  Mrs. 

'  Byron :  his  Sorrow — His  Affair  with  Mr.  Moon> — Their  Meeting  at 
Mr.  Rogers's  House,  and  Friendship 195 

CHAPTER  XXVI.— The  Libel  in  the  Scourge— The  general  Impression 
of  his  Character — Improvement  in  his  Manners  as  his  Merit  was  ac- 
knowledged by  the  Public— His  Address  in  Management — His  first 
Speech  in  Parliament — The  Publication  of  Childe  Harold— Its  Recep- 
tionand  Effect 163 

CHAPTER  XXVII.— Sketches  of  Character— His  friendly  Dispositions 

— Introduce  Prince  K to  him — Our  last  Interview— His  continued 

Kindness  towards  me — Instance  of  it  to  one  of  my  Friends 169 

CHAPTER  XXVIlI.— A  Miff  with  Lord  Byron— Remarkable  Coinci- 
dences— Plagiarisms  of  his  Lordship 175 

CHAPTER  XXIX.— Lord  Byron  in  1813— The  Lady's  Tragedy— Miss 
Milbanke — Growing  Uneasiness  of  Lord  Byron's  Mind— The  Friar's 
Ghost— The  Marriage — A  Member  of  the  Dmry-Lane  Committee — 
Embarrassed  Affairs — The  Separation 180 

CHAPTER  XXX.— Reflections  on  his  domestic  Verses— Consideration 
of  his  Works — The  Corsair— Probabilities  of  the  Character  and  Inci- 
dents of  the  Story— On  the  Difference  between  poetical  Invention  and 
moral  Experience,  illustrated  by  the  Difference  between  the  Genius 
of  Shakspeare  and  that  of  Byron 190 

CHAPTER  XXXI.— Byron  determines  to  reside  abroad— Visits  the 
FlainofWaterloo— State  of  his  Feelings. 198 

CHAPTER  XXXII.— Byron's  Residence  in  Switzerland— Excursion  to 
the  Glaciers — Manfred  founded  on  a  magical  Sacriflcej  not  on  Guilt 
— Similarity  between  Sentiments  given  to  Manfred,  and  those  ex- 
pressed by  Lord  Byron  in  his  own  Person S04 


CHAPTER  XXXIII.— State  of  Byron  in  Switzerland— He  goes  to 
Venice— The  Fourth  Canto  of  Childe  Harold — Rumination  on  his  own 
Condition— Beppo — Lament  of  Tasso— Curious  Example  of  Byron's 
metaphysical  Love 211 

CHAPTER  XXXIV.— Removes  to  Ravenna— The  Countess  Guic- 
cioli 217 


iRi 


CHAPTER  XXXV.— Residence  in  Ravenna— The  Carbonari— Byron's 
Part  in  their  Plot— The  Murder  of  the  military  CoTfimandant- The 
poetical  Use  of  the  Incident— Marino  Faliero— Reflectiont— The  Pro- 
phecy of  Dante S81 


W'  m,^ 


b-  i 


ii    ;'.' 


I! 


ill 


ill 


-I 


ill 


Xii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXVI.— The  Tragedy  of  Sardanapaltts  comddered  vi\th 
Beference  to-Lord  Byron's  own  CircumstancecH-Cain 330 

CHAPTER  XXXVn,— Removal  to  Pisa— The  Lanfiranchi  Palac©— 
Affhir  with  the  Guard  at  Pisa— Removal  to  Monte  Nero-^unction 
with  Mr.  Hunt— Mr.  Shelley's  Letter 334 

CHAPTER  XXXVm.— Mr.  Hunt  arrives  In  Italy- Meeting  with  Lord 
Byron— Tumults  in  the  House— Arrangements  for  Mr.  Hunt's  Family 
—Extent  of  his  Obligations  to  Lord  Byron— Their  Copartnery— Mean- 
ness of  the  whole  Business 340 

CHAPTER  XXXIX.— Mr.  Shelley— Sketch  of  his  Life— His  Death— 
The  Burning  of  his  Body,  and  the  Return  of  the  Mourners 345 

CHAPTER  XL.— The  Two  Foscari— Werner— The  Deformed  Trans- 
formed—Don  Juan— The  Liberal—  Removes  flrom  Pisa  to  Genoa.  •  349 

CHAPTER  XLI.— Genoa— Change  in  th")  Manners  of  Lord  Byron- 
Residence  at  the  Casa  Saluzzi— The  Libaral— Remarks  on  the  Poet's 
Works  in  general,  and  on  Hunt's  Strictures  on  his  Character. . . .  35& 

CHAPTER  XLH.— Lord  Byron  resolves  to  join  the  Greeks— Arrives 
at  Cephalonia— Greek  Factions — Sends  Emissaries  to  the  Grecian 
Chiefs — Writes  to  London  about  the  Loan — ^To  Mavrocordato  on  the 
Dissensions— Embarks  at  last  for  Missolonghi 360 

CHAPTER  XLin.— Lord  Byron's  Conversations  on  Religion  with  Dr. 
Kennedy 367 

CHAPTER  XLIV.— Voyage  to  Cephalonia- -Letter— Count  Gamba's 
Address — Gratef\il  Feelings  of  the  Turks— Endeavours  of  Lord  Byron 
to  mitigate  the  Horrors  of  the  War 381 

CHAPTER  XLV.— Proceedings  at  Missolonghi— Byron's  Suliote  Brigade 
— ^Their  Insubordination — Difference  with  Colonel  Stanhope — Imbe- 
cility of  the  Plans  for  the  Independence  of  Greece 380 

CHAPTER  XLVI.— Lord  Byrcm  appointed  to  the  Command  of  three 
thousand  Men  to  besiege  Lepanto — The  Siege  abandoned  for  a  Blockade 
—Advanced  Guard  ordered  to  proceed — Lord  Byron's  first  Illness— A 
Riot— He  is  urged  to  leave  Greece— The  Expedition  against  Lepanto 
abandoned— Byron  dejected— A  wild  diplomatie  Scheme 391 

CHAPTER  XLVn.— The  last  Illness  and  Death  of  Lord  Byron— His 
last  Poem S96 

CHAPTER  XLVm— The  Funeral Freparaticms  and  final  Obsequies  303 

CHAPTER  XLIX.— Character  of  Lord  Byron 307 

Appendix 313 


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but  I 

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preach 

in  con 

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so  sin^ 

that  of 

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a  wide 

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which  tl 

spective 

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blood  wi 

fied  him  ] 

whom  I 


lil! 


THE 


LIFE  OF  LORD  BYRON. 


<^'f 


INTRODUCTION. 


My  present  task  is  one  of  considerable  difficulty; 
but  I  have  long  had  a  notion  that  some  time  or 
another  it  would  fall  to  my  lot  to  perform  it.  I  ap- 
proach it,  therefore,  without  apprehension,  entirely 
in  consequence  of  having  determined,  to  my  own 
satisfaction,  the  manner  in  which  the  biography  of 
so  smgular  and  so  richly  endowed  a  character  as 
that  of  the  late  Lord  Byron  should  be  treated,  but 
still  with  no  small  degree  of  diffidence ;  for  there  is 
a  wide  difference  between  determining  a  rule  for 
one's  self,  and  producing,  according  to  that  rule,  a 
work  which  shall  please  the  public. 

It  has  happened,  both  with  regard  to  the  man  and 
the  poet,  that  from  the  first  time  his  name  came  be- 
fore the  public^  there  has  been  a  vehement  and  con- 
tinual controversy  concerning  him ;  and  the  chief 
difficulties  of  the  task  arise  out  of  the  heat  with 
which  the  adverse  parties  have  maintained  their  re- 
spective opinions.  The  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  placed,  until  his  accession  to  the  title  and  estates 
of  his  ancestors,  were  not  such  as  to  prepare  a  boy 
that  woidd  be  father  to  a  prudent  or  judicious  man. 
Nor,  according  to  the  history  of  his  family,  was  his 
blood  without  a  taint  of  suUenness,  which  disquali- 
fied him  from  conciliating  the  good  opinion  of  those 
whom  his   innate   superiority  must   have   often 

B 


.  'r 


I 


'I 


II 


1  ( 


u 


INTRODUCTION. 


prompted  him  to  desire  for  friends.  He  was  branded, 
moreover,  with  a  personal  deformity;  and  the  gnidee 
against  Nature  for  inflicting  this  defect  not  only 
deeply  disturbed  his  happiness,  but  so  generally  af- 
fected his  feelings  as  to  imbitter  them  with  a  vindic- 
tive sentiment,  so  strong  as,  at  times,  to  exhibit  the 
disagreeable  energy  of  misanthropy.  This  was  not 
all.  He  enjoyed  high  rank,  and  was  conscious  of 
possessing  great  talents;  but  his  fortune  was  inade- 
quate to  his  desires,  and  his  talents  were  not  of  an 
order  to  redeem  the  deficiencies  of  fortune.  It  like- 
wise so  happened  that  while  indulged  by  his  only 
friend,  his  mother,  to  an  excess  that  impaired  the 
manliness  of  his  character,  her  conduct  was  such  as 
in  no  degree  to  merit  the  affection  which  her  way- 
ward fondness  inspired. 

It  is  impossible  to  reflect  on  the  boyhood  of  Byron 
without  regret.  There  is  not  one  point  in  it  ail 
which  could,  otherwise  than  with  pain,  have  affected 
a  young  mind  of  sensibility.  His  works  bear  testi- 
mony, that,  while  his  memory  retained  the  impres- 
sions of  early  youth,  fresh  and  unfaded,  there  was  a 
gloom  and  shadow  upon  them,  which  proved  how 
little  they  had  been  really  joyous. 

The  riper  years  of  one  so  truly  the  nursling  of 
pride,  poverty,  and  pain,  could  only  be  inconsistent, 
wild,  and  impassioned,  even  had  his  temperament 
been  moderate  and  well  disciplinedr  But  when  it  is 
considered  that  in  addition  to  all  the  awful  influences 
of  these  fatalities,  for  they  can  receive  no  lighter 
name,  he  possessed  an  imagination  of  unbounded 
capacity — was  inflamed  with  those  indescribable 
feelings  which  constitute,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  the 
very  elements  of  genius — fearfully  quick  in  the  dis- 
cernment of  the  darker  qualities  of  character — and 
surrounded  by  temptation — ^his  career  ceases  to  sur- 
prise. It  would  have  been  more  wonderful  had  he 
proved  an  amiable  and  well-conducted  man,  than  the 
questionable  and  extraordinary  being  who  has  alike 


1 1  jii 

!i!     I; 


W«TW  ^lirt#ir»*iHrf  u 


fi 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


provoked  the  malice  and  interested  the  admiration 
of  the  world. 

Posterity,  while  acknowledging  the  eminence  of 
his  endowments,  and  lamenting  the  habits  which  his 
unliappy  circumstances  induced,  will  regard  it  as  a 
curious  phenomenon  in  the  fortunes  of  the  indivi- 
dual, that  the  progress  of  his  fame  as  a  poet  should 
have  been  so  similar  to  his  history  as  a  man. 

His  first  attempts,  though  displaying  both  original- 
ity and  power,  were  received  with  a  contemptuous 
disdain,  as  cold  and  repulsive  as  the  penury  and 
neglect  which  blighted  the  budding  of  his  youth. 
The  unjust  ridicule  in  the  review  of  his  first  poems, 
excited  in  his  spirit  a  discontent  as  inveterate  as  the 
feeling  which  sprung  from  his  deformity :  it  affected, 
more  or  less,  all  his  conceptions  to  such  a  degree 
that  he  may  be  said  to  have  hated  the  age  which  had 
joined  in  the  derision,  as  he  cherished  an  antipathy 
against  those  persons  who  looked  curiously  at  his 
foot.  Childe  Harold,  the  most  triumphant  of  his 
works,  was  produced  when  the  world  was  kindliest 
disposed  to  set  a  just  value  on  his  talents ;  and  his 
latter  productions,  in  which  the  faults  of  his  taste 
appear  the  broadest,  were  written  when  his  errors 
as  a  man  were  harshest  in  the  public  voice. 

These  allusions  to  the  incidents  of  a  life  full  of 
contrarieties,  and  a  character  so  strange  as  to  be 
almost  mysterious,  sufficiently  show  the  difficulties 
of  the  task  I  have  undertaken.  But  the  coiirse  I 
intend  to  pursue  will  relieve  me  from  the  necessity 
of  entering,  in  any  particular  manner,  upon  those 
debateable  points  of  his  personal  conduct  which 
have  been  so  much  discussed.  I  shall  consider  him, 
if  I  can,  as  his  character  will  be  estimated  when 
contemporary  surmises  are  forgotten,  and  when  the 
monument  he  has  raised  to  himself  is  contemplated 
for  its  beauty  and  magnificemce,  without  suggesting 
recollections  of  the  eccentricities  of  the  builder. 


:M 


I 


II ' 


16 


THE  LIFE  OF 


CHAPTER  I. 

Ancient  Descent— Pedigree— Birth— Troublts  of  his  Mother^Sartf 
Education— Accession  to  the  Title. 


\'} 


,;  I 


1" 


i! 


The  English  branch  of  the  family  of  B)rron  came 
in  with  William  the  Conqueror ;  and  from  that  era 
they  have  continued  to  be  reckoned  among  the  emi- 
nent families  of  the  kingdom,  under  the  names  of 
Huron  and  Biron.  It  was  not  until  the  reign  of 
Henry  H.  that  they  began  to  call  themselves  Byron, 
or  de  Byron. 

Although  for  upwards  of  seven  hundred  years  dis- 
tinguished for  the  extent  of  their  possessions,  it  does 
not  appear,  that,  before  the  time  of  Charles  I.,  they 
ranked  very  highly  among  the  heroic  families  of  the 
kingdom. 

Erneis  and  Ralph  were  the  companions  of  the 
Conqueror;  but  antiquaries  and  genealogists  have 
not  determined  in  what  relation  they  stood  to  each 
other.  Erneis,  who  appears  to  have  been  the  most 
considerable  personage  of  the  two,  held  numerous 
manors  in  the  counties  of  York  and  Lincoln.  In  the 
Domesday  Book,  Ralph,  the  direct  ancestor  of  the 
poet,  ranks  high  among  the  tenants  of  the  crown,  in 
Notts  and  Derbyshire ;  in  the  latter  county  he  re- 
sided at  Horestan  Castle,  from  which  he  took  his 
title.  One  of  the  lords  of  Horestan  was  a  hostage 
for  the  payment  of  the  ransom  of  Richard  Cceur  de 
Lion ;  and  in  the  time  of  Edward  I.,  the  possessions 
of  his  descendants  were  augmented  by  the  addition 
of  the  lands  of  Rochdale,  in  Lancashire.  On  what 
account  this  new  grant  was  given  has  not  been  as- 
certained ;  nor  is  it  of  impoitance  that  it  should  be. 

In  the  wars  of  the  three  Edwards,  the  de  Byrons 
appeared  with  some  distinction;  and  thev  were  also 


LORD  BYRON. 


17 


noted  in  the  time  of  Henry  \ .  Sir  John  B3nron 
Joined  Henry  YH.  oi.  his  landing  at  Milford,  and 
fought  gallantly  at  the  battle  of  Bosworth,  against 
Richard  HI. ;  for  which  he  was  afterward  appointed 
Constable  of  Nottingham  Castle,  and  Warden  of  Sher- 
wood Forest.  At  his  death,  in  1488,  he  was  suc- 
ceeded by  Sir  Nicholas,  his  brother,  who,  at  the  mar- 
riage of  Arthur,  Prince  of  Wales,  in  1601,  was  made 
one  of  the  KnightB  of  the  Bath. 

Sir  Nicholas  died  in  1540,  leaving  an  only  son.  Sir 
John  Byron,  whom  Henry  VIII.  made  Steward  of 
Manchester  and  Rochdale,  and  Lieutenant  of  the 
Forest  of  Sherwood.  It  was  to  him  that,  on  the  dis- 
solution of  the  monasteries,  the  church  and  priory  of 
Newstead,  in  the  county  of  Nottingham,  together 
with  the  manor  and  rectory  of  Papelwick,  were 
granted.  The  abbey  from  that  period  became  the 
family  seat,  and  continued  so  till  it  was  sold  by  the 
poet. 

Sir  John  Byron  left  Newstead,  and  his  other  pos- 
sessions, to  John  Byron,  whom  Collins  and  other 
writers  have  called  his  fourth,  but  who  was  in  fact 
his  illegitimate  son.  He  was  knighted  by  Queen 
Elizabeth  in  1579,  and  his  eldest  son,  Sir  Nicholas, 
served  with  distinction  in  the  wars  of  the  Nether- 
lands. When  the  great  rebellion  broke  out  against 
Charles  I.,  he  was  one  of  the  earliest  who  armed  in 
his  defence.  After  the  battle  of  Edgehill,  where  he 
courageously  distinguished  himself,  he  was  made 
Governor  of  Chester,  and  gallantly  defended  that 
city  against  the  Parliamentary  army.  Sir  John  By- 
ron, the  brother  and  heir  of  Sir  Nicholas,  was,  at  the 
coronation  of  James  I.,  made  a  Knight  of  the  Bath. 
By  his  marriage  with  Anne,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Sir  Richard  Molyneux,  he  had  eleven  sons  and  a 
daughter.  The  eldest  served  under  his  uncle  in  the 
Netherlands ;  and,  in  the  year  1641,  was  appointed, 
by  King  Charles  I.,  Governor  of  the  Tower  of  Lon- 
don*   In  this  situation  he  became  obnoxious  to  the 

63 


(II 


I 


!i' 


:i 


ii '  - 


ii;ii 


Mil 
I'ii' 


V 


THE   LIFE   OF 


refractory  spirits  in  the  Parliament ;  and  was  in  con« 
sequence  ordered  by  the  Commons  to  answer  at  the 
bar  of  their  House  certain  charges  which  the  secta- 
ries alleged  against  him.  But  he  refused  to  leave 
his  post  without  the  king^s  command ;  and,  upon 
this,  the  Commons  applied  to  the  Lords  to  join  them 
in  a  petition  to  the  king,  to  remove  him.  The  Peers 
rejected  the  proposition. 

On  the  24th  October,  1643,  Sir  John  Byron  was 
created  Lord  Byron  of  Rochdale,  in  the  county  of 
Lancaster,  with  remainder  of  the  title  to  his  brothers, 
and  their  male  issue,  respectively.  He  was  also 
made  Field-marshal-general  of  all  his  Majesty's 
forces  in  Worcestershire,  Cheshire,  Shropshire,  and 
North  Wales :  nor  were  these  trusts  and  honours 
unwon,  for  the  Byrons,  during  the  civil  war,  were 
eminently  distinguished.  At  the  battle  of  Newbury, 
seven  of  the  brothers  were  in  the  field,  and  all  ac- 
tively engaged. 

Sir  Richard,  the  second  brother  of  the  first  lord, 
was  knighted  by  Charles  L  for  his  conduct  at  the 
battle  of  Edgehill,  and  appointed  Governor  of  Ap- 
pleby Castle,  in  Westmoreland,  and  afterward  of 
Newark,  which  he  defended  with  great  honour.  Sir 
Richard,  on  the  death  of  his  brother,  in  1662,  suc- 
ceeded to  the  peerage,  and  died  in  1679. 

His  eldest  son,  William,  the  third  lord,  married 
Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of  Viscount  Chaworth,  of 
Ireland,  by  whom  he  had  five  sons,  four  of  whom 
died  young.  William,  the  fourth  lord,  his  son,  was 
Gentleman  of  the  Bedchamber  to  Prince  George  of 
Denmark,  and  married,  for  his  first  wife,  a  daughter 
of  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  who  died  eleven  weeks 
after  their  nuptials.  His  second  wife  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  Earl  of  Portland,  by  whom  he  had  three 
sons,  who  all  died  before  their  father.  His  third 
wife  was  Frances,  daughter  of  Lord  Berkley,  of 
Stratton,  from  whom  the  Poet  is  descended.  Her 
eldest  son,  William,  bom  in  1722,  succeeded  to  the 


**  -f 


liii 


IJ!:^ 


m 


LORD  BYRON. 


19 


family  honours  on  the  death  of  his  father,  in  1736. 
He  entered  the  naval  service,  and  became  a  lieu- 
tenant under  Admiral  Balchen.  In  the  year  1763, 
he  was  made  Master  of  the  Staghounds ;  and,  m  1765, 
he  was  sent  to  the  Tower,  and  tried  before  the  House 
of  Peers,  for  killing  his  relation  and  neighbour,  Mr. 
Chaworth,  in  a  duel  fought  at  the  Star  and  Garter 
Tavern,  in  Pall-mall. 

This  Lord  William  was  naturally  boisterous  and 
vindictive.  It  appeared  in  evidence  that  he  insisted 
on  fighting  with  Mr.  Chaworth  in  the  room  .where 
the  quarrel  commenced.  They  accordingly  fought 
without  seconds  by  the  dim  light  of  a  single  candle ; 
and,  although  Mr.  Chaworth  was  the  most  skilful 
swordsman  of  the  two,  he  received  a  mortal  wound; 
but  he  lived  long  enough  to  disclose  some  particu- 
lars of  the  rencounter,  which  induced  the  coroner's 
jury  to  return  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder,  and  Lord 
Byron  was  tried  for  the  crime. 

The  trial  took  place  in  Westminster  Hall,  and  the 
public  curiosity  was  so  great,  that  the  Peers'  tickets 
of  admission  were  publicly  sold  for  six  guineas  each. 
It  lasted  two  days,  and  at  the  conclusion,  he  was 
unanimously  pronounced  guilty  of  manslaughter.  On 
being  brought  up  for  judgment  he  pleaded  his  privi- 
lege, and  was  discharged.  It  was  to  this  lord  that 
the  Poet  succeeded,  for  he  died  without  leaving 
issue. 

His  brother,  the  grandfather  of  the  Poet,  was  the 
celebrated  "  Hardy  Byron ;"  or,  as  the  sailors  called 
him,  "Foulweather  Jack,"  whose  adventures  and 
services  are  too  well  known  to  require  any  notice 
here.  He  married  the  daughter  of  John  Trevannion 
Esq.,  of  Carhais,  in  the  county  of  Cornwall,  by  whom 
he  had  two  sons  and  three  daughters.  John,  the 
eldest,  and  the  father  of  the  Poet,  was  born  in  1751, 
educated  at  Westminster-school,  and  afterward 
placed  in  the  Guards,  where  his  conduct  became 
uo  irregular  and  profligate  that  his  father,  the  admi- 


W^ 


i'l!! 


V  'li' 


'I       •,|m 


il    ' 


!  1      ' 

I   ! 


II. 


!  i 


I      ■! 


«  H! 


rl     1 


!  1 1 : 1 

UK 


fii* 


il,u 

il' 


I!  1 


30 


THE   LIFE   OF 


ral,  though  a  good-natured  man,  discarded  him  long 
before  his  death.  In  1778,  he  acquired  extraordi- 
nary eclat  by  the  seduction  of  the  Marchioness  of 
Carmarthen,  under  circumstances  which  have  few 
parallels  in  the  licentiousness  of  fashionable  life. 
The  meanness  with  wliich  he  obliged  his  wretched 
victim  to  supply  him  with  money,  would  have  been 
disgraceful  to  the  basest  adultenes  of  the  cellar  or 
garret.  A  divorce  ensued,  the  guilty  parties  mar- 
ri^;  but,  within  two  years  after,  such  was  the  brutal 
and  vicious  conduct  of  Captain  Byron,  that  the  ill- 
fated  lady  died  literally  of  a  broken  heart,  after 
having  given  birth  to  two  daughters,  one  of  whom 
still  survives. 

Captain  Byron  then  married  Miss  Catharine  Gor- 
don, of  Gight,  a  lady  of  honourable  descent,  and  of 
a  respectable  fortune  for  a  Scottish  heiress,  the  only 
motive  which  this  Don  Juan  had  for  forming  the 
connexion.    She  was  the  mother  of  the  Poet. 

Although  the  Byrons  have  for  so  many  ages  been 
among  the  eminent  families  of  the  realm,  they  have 
no  claim  to  the  distinction  which  the  poet  has  set 
up  for  them  as  wairiors  in  Palestine,  even  though  he 
says — 

Near  Ascalon*s  tow'rs  John  or  Horestan  slombeni ; 

for  unless  this  refers  to  the  Lord  of  Horestan,  who 
was  one  of  the  hostages  for  the  ransom  of  Richard 
1.,  it  will  not  be  easy  to  determine  to  whom  he  al- 
ludes ;  and  it  is  possible  that  the  poet  has  no  other 
authority  f  ;t  this  legend,  than  the  tradition  which 
he  found  connected  with  two  groups  of  heads  on  the 
old  panels  of  Newstead.  Yet  the  account  of  them 
is  vague  and  conjectural,  f»r  it  was  not  until  ages 
after  the  crusades,  that  the  abbey  came  into  the  pos- 
session of  the  family :  and  it  is  not  probable  that 
^he  figures  referred  to  any  transactions  in  Palestine, 
in  which  the  Byrons  were  engaged,  if  they  were  put 


hw-  i 


LORD  BTRON. 


21 


up  by  the  Byrons  at  all.  They  were,  probably, 
placed  in  their  present  situation  while  the  building 
waa  in  possession  of  the  churchmen. 

One  of  the  groups,  consisting  of  a  female  and  two 
Saracens,  with  eyes  earnestly  fixed  upon  her,  may 
have  been  the  old  favourite  ecclesiastical  story  of 
Susannah  and  the  elders ;  the  other,  which  repre- 
sents a  Saracen  with  a  European  female  between 
him  and  a  Christian  soldier,  is,  perhaps,  an  ecclesi- 
astical allegory,  descriptive  of  the  Saracen  and  the 
Christian  warrior  contending  for  the  liberation  of  the 
church.  These  sort  of  allegorical  stories  were 
common  among  monastic  ornaments,  and  the  famous 
legend  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  is  one  of  them.* 

Into  the  domestic  circumstances  of  Captain  and 
Mrs.  Byron,  it  would  be  impertinent  to  institute  any 
particiiar  investigation.  They  were  exactly  such  as 
might  be  expected  from  the  sins  and  follies  of  the 
most  profligate  libertine  of  the  age. 

The  fortune  of  Mrs.  Byron,  consisting  of  various 
property,  and  amounting  to  about  £23,500,  was  all 
wasted  in  the  space  of  two  years ;  at  the  end  of 
which  the  unfortunate  lady  found  herself  in  posses- 
sion of  only  iJl50  per  annum. 

Their  means  being  thus  exhausted  she  accompa- 
nied her  husband,  in  the  summer  of  1786,  to  France, 
from  which  she  returned  to  England  at  the  close  of 
the  year  1787,  and  on  the  22d  of  January,  1788, 


■  u 


*  Gibbon  says,  "hat  St.  George  was  no  other  than  the  Bishop  of  Cap 
padocia,  a  personage  of  very  unecclesiastical  habits,  and  expresses  some 
degree  of  surprise  that  such  a  person  should  ever  have  been  sanctified 
in  the  calendar.  But  the  whole  story  of  this  deliverer  of  the  Princess 
of  Egypt  is  an  allegory  of  the  suiferingrj  of  the  church,  which  is  typified 
as  the  daughter  of  Egypt,  driven  into  the  wilderness,  and  exposed  to 
destruction  by  the  dragqn,  the  ancient  emblem  over  all  the  East  of  im« 
perial  power.  The  Bishop  of  Cappadocia  manfhlly  withstood  the  at- 
tempts of  the  emperor,  and  ultimately  succeeded  in  procuring  an  impe- 
rial recognition  of  the  church  in  Egypt.  We  have  adverted  to  this 
merely  to  show  the  devices  in  wliich  the  legends  of  the  church  were 
sometimes  imbodied ;  and  the  illuminated  missals— even  the  mass-books 
in  the  early  stages  of  printing— abundantly  prove  and  illustrate  the 
opinions  expressed. 


V,     ■  ifi 


t:      M 


22 


THE   LIFE   OF 


Hi' 


iri'i 


P*: 


gave  birth,  in  Holies-street,  London,  to  her  first  and 
only  child,  the  poet.  The  name  of  Gordon  was 
added  to  that  of  his  family  in  compliance  with  a 
condition  imposed  by  will  on  whoever  should  become 
the  husband  of  the  heiress  of  Gight.  The  late 
Duke  of  Gordon  and  Colonel  Duff,  of  Fetteresso, 
were  godfathers  to  the  child. 

In  the  year  1790,  Mrs.  Byron  took  up  her  residence 
in  Aberdeen,  where  she  was  soon  after  joined  by 
Captain  Byron,  with  whom  she  lived  in  lodgings  in 
Queen-street;  but  their  reunion  was  comfortless, 
and  a  separation  soon  took  place.  Still  their  rup- 
ture was  not  final,  for  they  occasionally  visited  and 
drank  tea  with  each  other.  The  Captain  also  paid 
some  attention  to  the  boy,  and  had  him,  on  one  oc- 
casion, to  stay  with  him  for  a  night,  when  he  proved 
so  troublesome  that  he  was  sent  home  next  day. 

Byron  himself  has  said,  that  he  passed  his  boy- 
hood at  Marlodge,  near  Aberdeen ;  but  the  statement  is 
not  correct ;  he  visited,  with  his  mother,  occasionally 
among  their  friends,  and  among  other  places  passed 
some  time  at  Fetteresso,  tlie  seat  of  his  godfather. 
Colonel  Duff.  In  1796,  after  an  attack  of  the  scarlet 
fever,  he  passed  some  time  at  Ballater,  a  summer  re- 
sort for  health  and  gayety,  about  forty  miles  up  the 
Dee  from  Aberdeen.  Although  the  circumstances  of 
Mrs.  Byron  were  at  this  period  exceedingly  straitened, 
she  received  a  visit  from  her  husband,  the  object  of 
which  was  to  extort  more  money ;  and  he  was  so 
far  successful,  that  she  contrived  to  borrow  a  sum, 
which  enabled  him  to  proceed  to  Valenciennes, 
where  in  the  following  year  he  died,  greatly  to  her 
relief,  and  the  gratification  of  all  who  were  con- 
nected with  him. 

By  her  advances  to  Captain  Byron,  and  the  ex- 

Eenses  she  incurred  in  furnishing  the  flat  of  the 
ouse  she  occupied  after  his  death,  Mrs.  Byron  fell 
into  debt  to  the  amount  of  j£300,  the  interest  on 
which  reduced  her  income  to  £135*  but,  much  to 


III  ■■~,:^-  ---^s 


MMMH 


LORD    BYRON* 


23 


e 

il 


her  credit,  she  contrived  to  live  without  increasing 
her  embarrassments,  until  the  death  of  her  grand- 
mother, when  she  received  £1122,  a  sum  which  had 
been  set  apart  for  the  old  gentlewoman's  jointure, 
and  which  enabled  her  to  discharge  her  pecuniary 
obligations. 

Notwithstanding  the  manner  in  which  this  unfor- 
tunate lady  was  treated  by  her  husband,  she  always 
entertained  for  him  a  strong  affection;  insomuch 
that,  when  the  intelligence  of  his  death  arrived,  her 
grief  was  loud  and  vehement.  She  was  indeed  a 
woman  of  quick  feelings  and  strong  passions ;  and 
probably  it  was  by  the  strength  and  sincerity  of  her 
sensibility  that  she  retained  so  long  the  affection  of 
her  son,  towards  whom  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
her  love  was  unaffected.  In  the  midst  of  the  ne- 
glect and  penury  to  which  she  was  herself  subjected, 
she  bestowed  upon  him  all  the  care,  the  love,  and 
watchfulness  of  the  tenderest  mother. 

In  his  fifth  year,  on  the  19th  of  November,  1792, 
she  sent  him  to  a  day-school,  where  she  paid  about 
five  shillings  a  quarter,  the  common  rate  of  the  re- 
spectable day-schools  at  that  time  in  Scotland.  It 
was  kept  by  a  Mr.  Bowers,  whom  Byron  has  de- 
scribed as  a  dapper,  spruce  person,  with  whom  he 
made  no  progress.  How  long  he  remained  with  Mr. 
Bowers  is  not  mentioned,  but  by  the  day-book  of 
the  school  it  was  at  least  twelve  months ;  for  on,  the 
19th  of  November  of  the  following  year  there  is  an 
entry  of  a  guinea  having  been  paid  for  him. 

From  this  school  he  was  removed  and  placed  with 
a  Mr.  Ross,  one  of  the  ministers  of  the  city  churches, 
and  to  whom  he  formed  some  attachment,  as  he 
speaks  of  him  with  kindness,  and  describes  him  as 
a  devout,  clever  little  man  of  mild  manners,  good- 
natured,  and  pains-taking.  His  third  instructer  was 
a  serious,  saturnine,  kind  young  man,  named  Pa- 
terson,  the  son  of  a  shoemaker,  but  a  good  scholar 
and  a  rigid  Presbyterian,    it  is  somewhat  curious  in 


r 


4  ^  ?' 


I     '     ' 


24 


THE  LIFE  OF 


U 


:M! 


I   ,1  ,| 


!l 


i1i 


iii.'i 


ill'' 


the  record  which  Byron  has  made  of  his  earlyyears, 
to  observe  the  constant  endeavour  with  which  he,  the 
descendant  of  such  a  limitless  pedigree  and  great 
ancestors,  attempts  to  magnify  the  condition  of  his 
mother*s  circumstances. 

Paterson  attended  him  until  he  went  to  the  gram- 
mar-school, where  his  character  first  began  to  be  de- 
veloped ;  and  his  schoolfellows,  many  of  whom  are 
alive,  still  recollect  him  as  a  lively,  warm-hearted, 
and  high-spirited  boy,  passionate  and  resentful,  but 
withal  affectionate  and  companionable ;  this,  how- 
ever, is  an  opinion  given  of  him  after  he  had  become 
celebrated ;  for  a  very  different  impression  has  un- 
questionably remained  among  some,  who  carry  their 
recollections  back  to  his  childhood.  By  them  he 
has  been  described  as  a  malignant  imp :  was  often 
spoken  of  for  his  pranks  by  the  worthy  housewives 
of  the  neighbourhood,  as  "Mrs.  Byron's  crockit 
deevil,"  and  generally  disliked  for  the  deep  vindic- 
tive anger  he  retained  against  those  with  whom  he 
happened  to  quarrel. 

By  the  death  of  William,  the  fifth  lord,  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  estates  and  titles  in  the  year  1798 ; 
and  in  the  autumn  of  that  year,  Mrs.  Byron,  with 
her  son  and  a  faithful  servant  of  the  name  of  Mary 
Gray,  left  Aberdeen  for  Newstead.  Previously  to 
their  departure,  Mrs.  Byron  sold  the  furniture  of  her 
humble  lodging,  with  the  exception  of  her  little 
plate  and  scanty  linen,  which  she  took  with  her,  and 
the  whole  amount  of  the  sale  did  not  yield  Seventy- 
five  Pounds. 


Moral 

Be 

chara 

nece 

reside 

gener 

deen, 

enoug 

hadh< 

minis( 

marks 

of  inn 

any  sj 

moodj 

charac 

He^ 

pressifl 

tained 

his  chil 

days;  ] 

ries  to 

ter  to  t 

But,  wl 

of  char 

and  bei 

Genius 

perame] 

bent,  be 

circums 

quality 

All  hear 

finable  I 


r^ 


LORD  BYRON. 


25 


CHAPTER  II.. 

Moral  BjffecU  (f  local  Scenery ;  a  Peculiarity  in  Taste— Early  Love^ 
Impressions  and  Traditions. 

Before  I  proceed  to  the  regular  narrative  of  the 
character  and  adventures  of  Lord  Byron,  it  seems 
necessary  to  consider  the  probable  effects  of  his 
residence,  during  his  boyhood,  in  Scotland.  It  is 
generally  agreed,  that  while  a  schoolboy  in  Aber- 
deen, he  evinced  a  lively  spirit,  and  sharpness 
enough  to  have  equalled  any  of  his  schoolfellows, 
had  he  given  sufficient  application.  In  the  few  re- 
miniscences preserved  of  his  childhood,  it  is  re- 
markable that  he  appears  in  this  period,  commonly 
of  innocence  and  playfulness,  rarely  to  have  evinced 
any  s)rmptom  of  generous  feeling.  Silent  rages, 
moody  suUenness,  and  revenge  are  the  general 
characteristics  of  his  conduct  as  a  boy. 

He  was,  undoubtedly,  delicately  susceptible  of  im- 
pressions from  the  beauties  of  nature,  for  he  re- 
tained recollections  of  the  scenes  which  interested 
his  childish  wonder,  fresh  and  glowing,  to  his  latest 
days ;  nor  have  there  been  wanting  plausible  theo- 
ries to  ascribe  the  formation  of  his  poetical  charac- 
ter to  the  contemplation  of  those  romantic  scenes. 
But,  whoever  has  attended  to  the  influential  causes 
of  character,  will  reject  such  theories  as  shallow, 
and  betraying  great  ignorance  of  human  nature. 
Genius  of  every  kind  belongs  to  some  innate  tem- 
perament ;  it  does  not  necessarily  imply  a  particular 
bent,  because  that  may  possibly  be  the  effect  of 
circumstanges :  but,  without  question,  the  peculiar 
quality  is  inborn,  and  particular  to  the  individual. 
AH  hear  and  see  much  alike ;  but  there  is  an  unde- 
finable  though  wide  difference  between  the  ear  of 

C 


I. 

'4'. 


■\ 


I 


!»i:!l 


11" 


1  ;ip  ,i(i 


111 


ii 


!  M 


'1; 

I'M 


26 


THE   LIFE   OF 


the  musician,  or  the  eye  of  the  painter,  compared 
with  the  hearing  and  seeing  organs  of  ordinary 
men ;  and  ii  is  in  something  like  that  difference  in 
which  genius  consists.  Genius  is,  however,  an  in- 
gredient of  mind  more  easily  described  by  its  effects 
than  by  its  qualities.  It  is  as  the  fragrance,  inde- 
pendent of  the  freshness  and  complexion  of  the 
rose ;  as  the  light  on  the  cloud ;  as  the  bloom  on  the 
cheek  of  beauty,  of  which  the  possessor  is  uncon- 
scious until  the  charm  has  been  seen  by  its  in- 
fluence on  others ;  it  is  the  internal  golden  flame  of 
the  opal;  a  something  which  may  be  abstracted 
from  the  thing  in  which  it  appears,  without  changing 
the  quality  of  its  substance,  its  form,  or  its  affinities. 
I  am  not,  therefore,  disposed  to  consider  the  idle 
and  reckless  childhood  of  Byron  as  unfavourable  to 
the  developement  of  his  genius ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
inclined  to  think,  that  the  indulgence  of  his  mother, 
leaving  him  so  much  to  the  accidents  of  undisci- 
plined impression,  was  calculated  to  cherish  associa- 
tions which  rendered  them,  in  the  maturity  of  his 
powers,  ingredients  of  spell  that  ruled  his  memory. 
It  is  singular,  and  I  am  not  aware  it  has  been  be- 
fore noticed,  that  with  all  his  tender  and  impassioned 
apostrophes  to  beauty  and  love,  Byron  has  in  no  in- 
stance, not  even  in  the  freest  passages  of  Don  Juan, 
associated  either  the  one  or  the  other  with  sensual 
images.  The  extravagance  of  Shakspeare's  Juliet, 
when  she  speaks  of  Romeo  being  cut  after  his  death 
into  stars,  that  all  the  world  may  be  in  love  with 
night,  is  flame  and  ecstasy  compared  to  the  icy  meta- 
physical glitter  of  Byron's  amorous  allusions.  The 
verses  beginning  with 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  light 

Of  eastern  climes  and  starry  skies,  ' 

is  a  perfect  example  of  what  I  have  conceived  of  his 
bodiless  admiration  of  beauty,  and  objectless  enthu- 
siasm of  love.    The  sentiment  itself  is  unquestion- 


lii'ijiiij. 


.ngi^l^.^ 


*■ 


LORD  BYRON. 


27 


5t, 


lis 


ably  in  the  highest  mood  of  the  intellectual  sense 
of  beauty;  the  simile  is,  however,  any  thing  but  such 
an  image  as  the  beauty  of  woman  would  suggest. 
It  is  only  the  remembrance  of  some  impression  or 
imagination  of  the  loveliness  of  a  twilight  applied 
to  an  object  that  awakened  the  same  abstract  gene- 
ral idea  of  beauty.  The  fancy  which  could  conceive 
in  its  passion  the  charms  of  a  female  to  be  like  the 
glow  of  the  evening,  or  the  general  effect  of  the 
midnight  stars,  must  have  been  enamoured  of  some 
beautiful  abstraction,  rather  than  aught  of  flesh  and 
blood.  Poets  and  lovers  have  compared  the  com- 
plexion of  their  mistresses  to  the  hues  of  the  morn- 
ing or  of  the  evening,  and  their  eyes  to  the  dew- 
drops  and  the  stars ;  but  it  has  no  place  in  the  feel- 
ings of  man  to  think  of  female  charms  in  the  sense 
of  admiration  which  the  beauties  of  the  morning  or 
the  evening  awaken.     It  is  to  make  the  simile  the 

Srincipal.  Perhaps,  however,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
efer  the  criticism  to  which  this  peculiar  character- 
istic of  Byron's  amatory  effusions  give  rise,  until  we 
shall  come  to  estimate  his  general  powers  as  a  poet. 
There  is  upon  the  subject  of  love,  no  doubt,  much 
beautiful  composition  throughout  his  works ;  but  not 
one  line  in  all  the  thousands  which  shows  a  sexual 
feeling  of  female  attraction — all  is  vague  and  pas  - 
sionless,  save  in  the  delicious  rhythm  of  the  verse. 
But  these  remarks,  though  premature  as  criti- 
cisms, are  not  uncalled  for  here,  even  while  we  are 
speaking  of  a  child  not  more  than  ten  years  old. 
Before  Byron  had  attained  that  age,  he  describes 
himself  as  having  felt  the  passion.  Dante  is  said  as 
early  as  nine  years  old  to  have  fallen  in  love  with 
Beatrice ;  Alfieri,  who  was  himself  precocious  in  the 
passionj^M^idered  such  early  sensibility  to  be  an 
unerrin^^^  of  a  soul  formed  for  the  fine  arts ;  and 
Canova  vSm  to  say  that  he  was  in  love  when  but 
five  years  old.  But  these  instances,  however,  prove 
nothing.    Calf-love,  as  it  is  called  in  the  country,  is 


28 


THE   LIFE   OF 


w 


I  ': 


I'M 
III 


t! 


Ill 


llljilli 


iiili  i' 


pi 


common ;  and  in  Italy  it  may  arise  earlier  than  in  the 
bleak  and  barren  regions  of  Lochynagar.  This 
movement  of  juvenile  sentiment  is  not,  however, 
love — that  strong  masculine  avidity,  which,  in  its 
highest  excitement,  is  unrestrained  by  the  laws  alike 
of  God  and  man.  In  truth,  the  feeling  of  this  kind 
of  love  is  the  very  reverse  of  the  irrepressible  pas- 
sion :  it  is  a  mean,  shrinking,  stealthy  awe,  and  in 
no  one  of  its  symptoms,  at  least  in  none  of  those 
which  Byron  describes,  has  it  the  slightest  resem- 
blance to  that  bold  energy  which  has  prompted  men 
to  undertake  the  most  improbable  adventures. 

He  was  not  quite  eight  years  old,  when,  according 
to  his  own  account,  he  formed  an  impassioned  at- 
tachment to  Mary  Duff;  and  he  gives  the  following 
account  of  his  recollection  of  her,  nineteen  years 
afterward. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  lately  a  good  deal  of  Mary 
Duff.  How  very  odd  that  I  should  have  been  so 
devotedly  fond  of  that  girl,  at  an  age  when  I  could 
neither  feel  passion,  nor  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word  and  the  effect!  My  mother  used  always  to 
rally  me  about  this  childish  amour,  and  at  last,  many 
years  after,  when  I  was  sixteen,  she  told  me  one 
day,  *  O  Byron,  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Edinburgh, 
and  your  old  sweetheart,  Mary  Duff,  is  married  to 
Mr.  C****.'  And  what  was  my  answer  1  I  really 
cannot  explain  or  account  for  my  feelings  at  that 
moment,  but  they  nearly  threw  me  into  convulsions, 
and  alarmed  my  mother  so  much,  that  after  I  grew 
better  she  generally  avoided  the  subject-^to  me — and 
contented  herself  with  telling  it  to  all  her  acquaint- 
ance." But  was  this  agitation  the  effect  of  natural 
feeling,  or  of  something  in  the  manner  in  which  his 
mother  may  have  told  the  news  ?  He^g^eeds  to 
inquire.  **  Now  what  could  this  be  1  ^Had  never 
seen  her  since  her  mother's  /aux  pamIr Aberdeen 
had  been  the  cause  of  her  removal  to  her  grand- 
mother's at  Banff.   We  were  both  the  merest  child- 


ren. 

that 

alio 

lessi 

forn 

Poor 

write 

too  o 

in  th( 

from 

sister 

grave 

"H 

Wher 

ideas 

love  f( 

doubt, 

that  as 

afterw 

me,  to 

ment  i 

isaph 

years  < 

the  lat( 

the  rec 

forcibl] 

remem' 

sister  I 

verypr 

Her  bn 

— I  sho 

reality, 

confuse 

existed 

the  dist 

Such 

aslha\ 

dren,  ar 

of  riper 


LORD   BYRON. 


29 


ral 
lis 
to 
er 
m 
Id- 
d- 


Ten.  I  had,  and  have  been,  attached  fifty  times  since 
that  period ;  yet  I  recollect  all  we  said  to  each  other, 
all  our  caresses,  her  features,  my  restlessness,  sleep- 
lessness, my  tormenting  my  mother's  maid  to  write 
for  me  to  her,  which  she  at  last  did  to  quiet  me. 
Poor  Nancy  thought  I  was  wild,  and,  as  I  could  not 
write  for  myself,  became  my  secretary.  I  remember 
too  our  walks,  and  the  happiness  of  sitting  by  Mary, 
in  the  children's  apartment,  at  their  house,  not  far 
from  the  Plainstones,  at  Aberdeen,  while  her  lesser 
sister,  Helen,  played  with  the  doll,  and  we  sat 
gravely  making  love  in  our  own  way. 

"How  the  deuse  did  all  this  occur  so  early? 
Where  could  it  originate  1  I  certainly  had  no  sexual 
ideas  for  years  afterward,  and  yet  my  misery,  my 
love  for  that  girl,  were  so  violent,  that  I  sometimes 
doubt,  if  I  have  ever  been  really  attached  since.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  hearing  of  her  marriage,  several  years 
afterward,  was  as  a  thunderstroke.  It  nearly  choked 
me,  to  the  horror  of  my  mother,  and  the  astonish- 
ment and  almost  incredulity  of  every  body ;  and  it 
is  a  phenomenon  in  my  existence,  for  I  was  not  eight 
years  old,  which  has  puzzled  and  will  puzzle  me  to 
the  latest  hour  of  it.  And,  lately,  I  know  not  why, 
the  recollection  (not  the  attachment)  has  recurred  as 
forcibly  as  ever :  I  wonder  if  she  can  have  the  least 
remembrance  of  it  or  me,  or  remember  pitying  her 
sister  Helen,  for  not  having  an  admirer  too.  How 
very  pretty  is  the  perfect  image  of  her  in  my  memory. 
Her  brown  dark  hair  and  hazel  eyes,  her  very  dress 
— I  should  be  quite  grieved  to  see  her  now.  The 
reality,  however  beautiful,  would  destroy,  or  at  least 
confuse,  the  features  of  the  lovely  Peri,  which  then 
existed  in  her,  and  still  lives  in  my  imagination,  at 
the  distance  of  more  than  sixteen  years." 

Such  precocious  and  sympathetic  affections  are, 
as  I  have  already  mentioned,  common  among  chil- 
dren, and  is  something  very  different  from  the  love 
of  riper  years;  but  the  extract  is  curious,  and  shows 

C3 


.fM 


i>! 


ill 

iilliii' 


■  illii 


I.! 


m 


30 


THE  LIFE   OF 


ii^ii'ii 


how  truly  little  and  vague  Byron's  experience  of  the 
passion  must  have  been.  In  his  recollection  of  the 
girl,  be  it  observed,  there  is  no  circumstance  noticed 
which  shows,  however  strong  the  mutual  sympathy, 
the  slightest  influence  of  particular  attraction.  He 
recollects  the  colour  of  her  hair,  the  hue  of  her  eyes, 
her  very  dress,  and  he  remembers  her  as  a  Peri,  a 
spirit ;  nor  does  it  appear  that  his  sleepless  restless- 
ness, in  which  the  thought  of  her  was  ever  upper- 
most, was  produced  by  jealousy,  or  doubt,  or  fear, 
or  any  other  concomitant  of  the  passion. 

There  is  another  most  important  circumstance  in 
what  may  be  called  the  Aberdonian  epoch  of  Lord 
Byron's  life. 

That  Byron,  in  his  boyhood,  was  possessed  of 
lively  sensibilities,  is  sufficiently  clear ;  that  he  en- 
joyed the  advantage  of  indulging  his  humour  and 
temper  without  restraint,  is  not  disputable ;  and  that 
his  natural  temperament  made  him  sensible,  in  no 
ordinary  degree,  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  is  also 
abundantly  manifest  in  all  his  productions ;  but  it  is 
surprising  that  this  admiration  of  the  beauties  of 
nature  is  but  an  ingredient  in  Byron's  poetry,  and 
not  its  most  remarkable  characteristic.  Deep  feel- 
ings of  dissatisfaction  and  disappointment  are  far 
more  obvious;  they  constitute,  indeed,  the  very 
spirit  of  his  works,  and  a  spirit  of  such  qualities  is 
the  least  of  all  likely  to  have  arisen  from  the  con- 
templation of  magnificent  nature,  or  to  have  been 
inspired  by  studying  her  storms  or  serenity;  for 
dissatisfaction  and  disappointment  are  the  offspring 
of  moral  experience,  and  have  no  natural  associa- 
tion with  the  forms  of  external  things.  The  habit 
of  associating  morose  sentiments  with  any  par- 
ticular kind  of  scenery  only  shows  that  the  sources 
of  the  sullenness  arose  in  similar  visible  circum- 
stances. It  is  from  these  premises  I  would  infer, 
that  the  seeds  of  Byron's  misanthropic  tendencies 
were  implanted  during  the  "silent  rages"  of  his 


liiiii 


r^ 


LORD  BYRON. 


u 


far 
jry 


en 
for 


childhood,  and  that  the  effect  of  mountain  scenery, 
which  continued  so  strong  upon  him  after  he  left 
Scotland,  producing  the  sentiments  with  which  he 
has  imbued  his  heroes  in  the  wild  circumstances  in 
which  he  places  them,  was  mere  reminiscence  and 
association.  For  although  the  sullen  tone  of  his 
mind  was  not  fully  brought  out  until  he  wrote  Childe 
Harold,  it  is  yet  evident  from  his  Hours  of  Idleness, 
that  he  was  tuned  to  that  key  before  he  went  abroad. 
The  dark  colouring  of  his  mind  was  plainly  imbibed 
in  a  mountainous  region,  from  sombre  heaths,  and 
in  the  midst  of  rudeness  and  grandeur.  He  had  no 
taste  for  more  cheerful  images,  and  there  is  neither 
rural  objects  nor  villagery  in  the  scenes  he  describes, 
but  only  loneness  and  the  solemnity  of  mountains. 

To  those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  Scottish 
character,  it  is  unnecessary  to  suggest  how  very 
probable  it  is  that  Mrs.  Byron  and  her  associates  were 
addicted  to  the  oral  legends  of  the  district  and  of 
her  ancestors,  and  that  the  early  fancy  of  the  poet 
was  nourished  with  the  shadowy  descriptions  in  the 
tales  o^  the  olden  time ; — at  least  this  is  manifest, 
that  although  Byron  shows  little  of  the  melancholy 
and  mourning  of  Ossian,  he  was  yet  evidently  in- 
fluenced by  some  strong  bias  and  congeniality  of 
taste,  to  brood  and  cogitate  on  topics  of  the  same 
character  as  those  of  that  bard.  Moreover,  besides 
the  probability  of  his  imagination  having  been  early 
tinged  with  the  sullen  hue  of  the  local  traditions,  it 
is  remarkable,  that  the  longest  of  his  juvenile  poems 
is  an  imitation  of  the  manner  of  the  Homer  of 
Morven.  ♦ 

In  addition  to  a  natural  temperament,  kept  in  a 
state  of  continual  excitement,  by  unhappy  domestic 
incidents,  and  the  lurid  legends  of  the  past,  there 
were  other  causes  in  operation  around  Uie  young 
poet,  that  could  not  but  greatly  aflfect  the  formation 
of  his  character. 

Descended  of  a  distinguished  family,  counting 


\  ♦ 


1: 


'il^ 


i 


:!i|! 


i!'  ■,. 


II 


ii!- 


'Ill 


82 


THt:  LIFE  OF 


among  its  ancestors  the  fated  line  of  the  Scottish 
kings,  and  reduced  almost  to  extreme  poverty,  it  is 
highly  probable,  both  from  the  violence  of  her  tem- 
per, and  the  pride  of  blood,  that  Mrs.  Byron  would 
complain  of  the  almost  mendicant  condition  to 
which  slie  was  reduced,  especially  so  long  as  there 
was  reason  to  fear  that  her  son  was  not  likely  to 
succeed  to  the  family  estates  and  dignity.  Of  his 
father's  lineage,  few  traditions  were  perhaps  pre- 
served, compared  with  those  of  his  mother's  family; 
but  still  enough  was  known  to  impress  the  imagina- 
tion. Mr.  Moore,  struck  with  this  circumstance, 
has  remarked,  that  "in  reviewing  the  ancestors, 
both  near  and  remote,  of  Lord  Byron,  it  cannot  fail 
to  be  remarked  how  strikingly  he  combined  in  his 
own  nature  some  of  the  best,  and  perhaps  worst 
qualities  that  lie  scattered  through  the  various  cha- 
racters of  his  predecessors."  But  still  it  is  to  his 
mother's  traditions  of  her  ancestors  that  I  would 
ascribe  the  conception  of  the  dark  and  guilty  beings 
which  he  delighted  to  describe.  And  though  it  may 
be  contended  that  there  was  little  in  her  conduct  to 
exalt  poetical  sentiment,  still  there  was  a  great  deal 
in  her  condition,  calculated  to  affect  and  impel  an 
impassioned  disposition.  I  can  imagine  few  situa- 
tions more  likely  to  produce  lasting  recollections  of 
interest  and  affection,  than  that  in  which  Mrs.  Byron, 
with  her  only  child,  was  placed  in  Aberdeen.  What- 
ever might  have  been  the  violence  of  her  temper,  or 
the  improprieties  of  her  after-life,  the  fond  and 
mournful  caresses  with  which  she  used  to  hang  over 
her  lame%nd  helpless  orphan,  must  have  greatly- 
contributed  to  the  formation  of  that  morbid  sensibi- 
lity which  became  the  chief  characteristic  of  his 
life.  At  the  same  time,  if  it  did  contribute  to  fill 
his  days  with  anguish  and  anxieties,  it  also  un-? 
doubtedly  assisted  the  developement  of  his  powers ; 
and  I  am  therefore  disposed  to  conclude,  that 
although,  with  respect  to  the  charaeter  of  the  man, 


LORD   BYRON. 


33 


the  time  he  spent  in  Aberdeen  can  only  be  contem- 

Elated  with  pity,  mingled  with  soitow,  still  it  must 
ave  been  richly  fraught  with  incidents  of  incon- 
ceivable value  to  the  genius  of  the  poet. 


""3*^ft»-^, 


It 


CHAPTER  III. 

Arrival  at  Newatead—Find  it  in  Ruins— TTie  old  Lord  and  his  Beetle* 
— The  Earl  of  Carlisle  becomes  the  Guardian  of  Byron— The  PoeVa 
acute  Sense  of  hia  own  dtformed  Foot— His  Mother  consults  a  For- 
tuneteller. 

Mrs.  Byron,  oft  her  arrival  at  Newstead  Abbey 
with  her  son,  found  it  almost  in  a  state  of  ruin. 
After  the  equivocal  aflfair  of  the  duel,  the  old  lord 
lived  in  absolute  seclusion,  detested  by  his  tenantry, 
at  war  with  his  neighbours,  and  deserted  by  all  his 
family.  He  not  only  suffered  the  abbey  to  fall  into 
decay,  but,  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power,  alienated  the 
land  which  should  have  kept  it  in  repair,  and  denuded 
the  estate  of  the  timber.  B3n'on  ^  is  described  the 
conduct  of  the  morose  peer  in  very  strong  terms : 
— ^'*  After  his  trial  he  shut  himself  up  at  Newstead, 
and  was  in  the  habit  of  feeding  (Tickets,  which  were 
his  only  companions.  He  made  them  so  tame  that 
they  used  to  crawl  over  him,  and,  when  they  were 
too  familiar,  he  whipped  them  with  a  wisp  of  straw : 
at  his  death,  it  is  said,  *'  y  1^  the  hmise  in  a 
body."  ^         .^,, 

However  this  mayh  been^  is  certain  that 
B3n'on  came  to  an  embarrasiied  inheritance,  both  as 
respected  his  property  and  the  character  of  his  race ; 
and,  perhaps,  though  his  genius  suffered  nothing  by 
the  circumstance,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  he  was 
still  left  under  the  charge  of  lids  m<f|ther:  a  woman 
without  judgment  or  self-commipd ;  alternately 


I   1/. 


,.!f 


1 

15 

1 

Jr 

ft 

.1;"                           1 

1                     ! 

i 

! 
i 

.1      1 

j! 

1 

ill 

i':' 

1  1 

1   ! 

I'l' 

up" 

I  III 


-  ■\\\ 


i  I 


li!  m 
m 


34 


THE  LIFE  OF 


spoiling  her  child  by  indulgence,  irritating  him  by 
her  self-willed  obstinacy,  and,  what  was  still  worse, 
amusing  him  by  her  violence,  and  disgusting  him  by 
fits  of  inebriety.  Sympathy  for  her  misfortunes 
would  be  no  sufficient  apology  for  concealing  her 
defects ;  they  undoubtedly  had  a  material  influence 
on  her  son,  and  her  appearance  was  often  the  subject 
of  his  childish  ridicule.  She  was  a  short  and  cor- 
pulent person.  She  rolled  in  her  gait,  and  would,  in 
her  rage,  sometimes  endeavour  to  catch  him  for  the 
purpose  of  inflicting  pmiishraent,  while  he  would  run 
round  the  room,  mocking  her  menaces  and  mimicking 
her  motion. 

The  greatest  weakness  in  Lord  Byron's  character 
was  a  morbid  sensibility  to  his  lameness.  He  felt  it 
with  as  much  vexation  as  if  it  had  been  inflicted 
ignominy.  One  of  the  most  striking  passages  in 
some  memoranda  which  he  has  left  of  his  early 
days,  is  where,  in  speaking  of  his  own  sensitiveness 
on  the  subject  of  his  deformed  foot,  he  described 
the  feeling  of  horror  and  humiliation  that  came  over 
him  when  his  mother,  in  one  of  her  fits  of  passion, 
called  him  a  "  lame  brat." 

The  sense  which  Byron  always  retained  of  the 
innocent  fault  in  his  foot,  was  unmanly  and  exces- 
sive ;  for  it  was  not  greatly  conspicuous,  and  he  had 
a  mode  of  walking  across  a  room  by  which  it  was 
scarcely  at  all  perceptible.  I  was  several  days  on 
board  the  same  ship  with  him,  before  I  happened  to 
discover  the  defect;  it  was  indeed  so  well  concealed, 
that  I  w^  in  d^^t  whether  his  lameness  was  the 
efliect  off  temfiSry  accident,  or  a  malformation, 
until  I  asked  MrJ^obliQ]9|se. 

On  their  arrival  ffoilill^otland,  Byron  was  placed 
by  his  mother  mider  the  care  of  an  empirical  pre- 
tQAder  of  the  name  of  Lavender,  at  Nottingham, 
who  professed  thjyqpe  of  such  cases ;  and  that  he 
might  not  loMfjjmlScLiiL  tiis  education,  he  was 
attended  by  a^bl^^^^choulmaster,  Mr.  Rod- 


w 


'■«etfc-,. 


led, 
Ithe 
Ion, 

jed 

ke- 

im, 

he 

ras 

>d- 


LORD  BYRON. 


9B 


gers,  who  read  parts  of  Virgil  and  Cicero  with  him. 
Of  this  gentleman  he  always  entertained  a  kind 
remembrance.  Nor  was  his  regard  in  this  instance 
peculiar ;  for  it  may  be  said  to  have  been  a  distin- 
guishing trait  in  his  character,  to  recollect  with 
affection  all  who  had  been  about  him  in  his  youth. 
The  quack,  however,  was  an  exception ;  who  (from 
having  caused  him  to  suffer  much  pain,  and  whose 
pretensions,  even  young  as  he  then  was,  he  detected), 
he  delighted  to  expose.  On  one  occasion,  be  scrib- 
bled down  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet  at  random,  but  in  the  form  of  words  and 
sentences,  and  placing  them  before  Lavender,  asked 
him  gravely,  what  language  it  was.  "  Italian,"  was 
the  reply,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  the  little 
satirist,  who  burst  into  a  triumphant  laugh  at  the 
success  of  his  stratagem. 

It  is  said  that  about  this  time  the  first  symptom 
of  his  predilection  for  rhyming  showed  itself.  An 
elderly  lady,  a  visiter  to  his  mother,  had  been  indis- 
creet enough  to  give  him  some  offence,  and  slights 
he  generally  resented  with  more  energy  than  they 
often  deserved.  This  venerable  personage  enter- 
tained a  singular  notion  respecting  the  soul,  which 
she  believed  took  its  flight  at  death  to  the  moon. 
One  day,  after  a  repetition  of  her  original  contumely, 
he  appeared  before  his  nurse  in  a  violent  ra^e,  and 
complained  vehemently  of  the  old  lady,  declaring 
that  he  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  her,  and  then  he 
broke  out  into  the  following  doggerel,  which  he  re- 
peated over  and  over,  crowing  with  deligh^ 

In  Nottingham  county,  there  lives  at  Swan-green, 
As  curs'd  an  old  'ady  as  ever  was  seen ; 
And  when  she  does  die,  which  I  hope  will  be  soon, 
She  firmly  believes  she  will  go  to  the  moon.  * 

Mrs.  Byron,  by  the  accession  of  her  son  to  the  fa>« 
mily  honours  and  estate,  received  no  addition  to  he;; 
small  income ;  and  he,  .being  a  minor,  was  unable 


.,.-#• 


% 


{ 


ii*'' 


::! 


■i 


i 


t^; 


!i||i!!l|i';  i 


36 


THE   LIFE   OF 


■lli'ii  ^ 


it'^ " ; 


III 


in  I 


m 


!  iili  I 


PIlii 


l!'i 


mm 


make  any  settlement  upon  her.  A  representation 
of  her  case  was  made  to  government,  and  in  con- 
sequence she  was  placed  on  the  pension-list  for  300/. 
a-year. 

Byron  not  having  received  any  benefit  from  the 
Nottingham  quack,  was  removed  to  London,  put 
under  the  care  of  Dr.  Bailey,  and  placed  in  the 
school  of  Dr.  Glennie,  at  Dulwich ;  Mrs.  Byron  her- 
self took  a  house  on  Sloan  Terrace.  Moderation  in 
all  athletic  exercises  was  prescribed  to  the  boy,  but 
Dr.  Glennie  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining  his 
activity.  He  was  quiet  enough  while  in  the  house 
with  the  Doctor,  but  no  sooner  was  he  released  to 
play,  than  he  showed  as  much  ambition  to  excel  in 
violent  exercises  as  the  most  robust  youth  of  the 
school ;  an  ambition  common  to  young  persons  who 
have  the  misfortune  to  labour  under  bodily  defects. 

While  under  the  charge  of  Dr.  Glennie,  he  was 
playful,  good-humoured,  and  beloved  by  his  com- 
panions ;  and  addicted  to  reading  history  and  poetry 
far  beyond  the  usual  scope  of  his  age.  In  these 
studies  he  showed  a  predilection  for  the  Scriptures ; 
and  certainly  there  are  many  traces  in  his  works 
which  show  that,  whatever  the  laxity  of  his  reli- 
gious principles  may  have  been  in  after-life,  he  was 
not  unacquainted  with  the  records  andhistory  of  our 
religioi^. 

During  this  period,  Mrs.  Byron  often  indiscreetly 
interfered  with  the  course  of  his  education ;  and  if 
his  classical  studies  were  in  consequence  not  so  ef- 
fectually conducted  as  they  might  have  been,  his 
mind  derived  some  of  its  best  nutriment  from  the 
loose  desultory  course  of  his  reading. 

Among  the  books  to  which  the  boys  at  Dr.  Glen- 
nie's  school  had  access,  was  a  pamphlet  containing 
the  narrative  of  a  shipwreck  on  the  coast  of  Arra- 
can,  filled  with  impressive  descriptions.  It  had  not 
attracted  much  public  attention,  but  it  was  a  favour- 
ite with  the  pupils,  particularly  with  Byron,  and  fur« 


.  ^f^arMtViMF^tOMw^'^Wi 


nish 

intl 

Juar 

A] 

ares 

he  h; 

as  ea 

for  n 

aboui 

Audi 

of  thi 

mal  i 

loves 

"I 

the  tr; 

ness  0 

intima 

of  a  r 

tainly 

true  lo 

in  the 

Wh€ 

tuition 

chiefly 

with  hi 

often  fr 

Durir 

Glennie 

riod  of 

S"Pposit 

pline  oi 

proved  j 

afterwar 

ishness, 

kind.    T 

fection, 

Ke  prese 

sessed,  ai 

when  he 


i;'^ 


LORD   BYRON. 


37 


i»^ 


if 


nished  him  afterward  with  the  leading  circumstances 
in  the  striking  description  of  the  shipwreck  in  Don 
Juan. 

Although  the  rhymes  upon  the  lunar  lady  of  Notts 
are  supposed  to  have  been  the  first  twitter  of  his  muse, 
he  has  said  himself,  "  my  first  dash  into  poetry  was 
as  early  as  1800.  It  was  the  ebullition  of  a  passion 
for  my  first  cousin,  Margaret  Parker.  I  was  then 
about  twelve,  she  rather  older,  perhaps  a  year.'' 
And  it  is  curious  to  remark,  that  in  his  description 
of  this  beautiful  girl  there  is  the  same  lack  of  ani- 
mal admiration  which  we  have  noticed  in  all  his 
loves ;  he  says  of  her — 

"  I  do  not  recollect  scarcely  any  thing  equal  to 
the  transparent  beauty  of  my  cousin,  or  to  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  temper,  during  the  short  period  of  our 
intimacy :  she  looked  as  if  she  had  been  made  out 
of  a  rainbow,  all  beauty  and  peace."  This  is  cer- 
tainly poetically  expressed;  but  there  was  more 
true  love  in  Pygmalion's  passion  for  his  statue,  and 
in  the  Parisian  maiden's  adoration  of  the  Apollo. 

When  he  had  been  nearly  two  years  under  the 
tuition  of  Dr.  Glennie,  he  was  removed  to  Harrow, 
chiefly  in  consequence  of  his  mother's  interference 
with  his  studies,  and  especially  by  withdrawing  him 
often  from  school. 

During  the  time  he  was  under  the  care  of  Dr. 
Glennie,  he  was  more  amiable  than  at  any  other  pe- 
riod of  his  life,  a  circumstance  which  justifies  the 
supposition,  that,  had  he  been  left  more  to  the  disci- 
pline of  that  respectable  person,  he  would  have 
proved  a  better  man ;  for,  however  much  his  heart 
afterward  became  incrusted  with  the  leprosy  of  self- 
ishness, at  this  period  his  feelings  were  warm  and 
kind.  Towards  his  nurse  he  evinced  uncommon  af^ 
fection,  which  he  cherished  as  long  as  she  lived. 
He  presented  her  with  his  watch,  the  first  he  pos- 
sessed, and  also  a  iull-length  miniature  of  himself, 
when  he  was  only  between  seven  and  eight  year* 

D 


^1 


^ ' 


i 

i 
» 


>     ' 


'I 


1   ! 


JllllljPiiili 


38 


THE   LIFE   OF 


1  i  li  i 


\l!\. 


-:,^ij| 


'!ii:!;i 


!li: 


I!- 


iii  ;'   ;, 

,  r  -■ 


i:!il 


iilllf:;' 

ill  *■" 


iiij''^ 


(Iii 


old,  representing  him  with  a  profusion  of  curling 
locks,  and  in  his  hands  a  bow  and  arrow.  The  sis- 
ter of  this  woman  had  been  his  first  nurse,  and  after 
he  had  left  Scotland  he  wrote  to  her,  in  a  spirit 
which  betokened  a  gentle  and  sincere  heart,  inform- 
ing her  with  much  joy  of  a  circumstance  highly  im- 
portant to  himself.  It  was  to  tell  her  that  at  last  he 
had  got  his  foot  so  far  restored  as  to  be  able  to  put 
on  a  common  boot,  an  event  which  he  was  sure 
would  give  her  great  pleasure ;  to  himself  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  imagine  any  incident  which  could  have  been 
more  gratifying. 

I  dwell  with  satisfaction  on  these  descriptions  of 
his  early  dispositions ;  for,  although  there  are  not 
wanting  instances  of  similar  warm-heartedness  in 
his  later  years,  still  he  never  formed  any  attach- 
ments so  pure  and  amiable  after  he  went  to  Har- 
row. The  change  of  life  came  over  him,  and  when 
the  vegetable  period  of  boyhood  w^as  past,  the  ani- 
mal passions  mastered  all  the  softer  affections  of  his 
character. 

In  the  summer  of  1801  he  accompanied  his  mother 
to  Cheltenham,  and  while  he  resided  there  the  views 
of  the  Malvern  hills  recalled  to  his  memory  his  en- 
joyments amid  the  wilder  scenery  of  Aberdeenshire. 
The  recollections  were  reimpressed  on  his  heart  and 
interwoven  with  his  strengthened  feelings.  But  a 
boy  gazing  with  emotion  on  the  hills  at  sxmset,  be- 
cause they  remind  him  of  the  mountains  where  he 
passed  his  childhood,  is  no  proof  that  he  is  already 
in  heart  and  imagination  a  poet.  To  suppose  so  is 
to  mistake  the  materials  for  the  building. 

The  delight  of  Byron  in  contemplating  the  Mal- 
vern hills,  was  not  because  they  resembled  the  sce- 
nery of  Lochynagar,  but  because  they  awoke  trains 
of  thought  aild  fancy,  associated  with  recollections 
of  that  scenery.  The  poesy  of  the  feeUng  lay  not 
in  the  beauty  of  the  objects,  but  in  the  moral  effect 
of  the  traditions,  to  which  these  objects  served  as 


talis 

min 

nisc 

tutei 

his 

sight 

socis 

and 

to  n( 

contr 

vour£ 

Th 

no  re 

gions 

poetr 

vocal" 

any  ft 

local  ] 

with  t; 

not  63 

languE 

terest 

and  in 

the  gei 

celebra 

place,- 

Swiss  * 

Whil 

tunetel 

accordi 

ning  ar 

that  sh( 

unconsc 

spaewif) 

a  maide 

of  the  w 

be  not  o 

son  who 

of  secoE 


iiiiiiiiiiii  ^ 


it^MililftUteA 


«0mK>'Sv«''!4#/'' 


[al- 
Isce- 

lins 
lions 

not 
Iffect 
as 


LORD   BYRON. 


30 


talismans  of  the  memory.  The  scene  at  sunset  re- 
minded him  of  the  Highlands,  but  it  was  those  remi- 
niscences which  similar  scenes  recalled,  that  consti- 
tuted the  impulse  which  gave  life  and  elevation  to 
his  reflections.  There  is  not  more  poesy  in  the 
sight  of  mountains  than  of  plains ;  it  is  the  local  as- 
sociations that  throw  enchantment  over  all  scenes, 
and  resemblance  that  awakens  them,  binding  them 
to  new  connexions :  nor  does  this  admit  of  much 
controversy ;  for  mountainous  regions,  however  fa- 
vourable to  musical  feeling,  are  but  little  to  poetical. 

The  Welch  have  no  eminent  bard;  the  Swiss  have 
no  renown  as  poets ;  nor  are  the  mountainous  re- 
gions of  Greece,  or  of  the  Apennines,  celebrated  for 
poetry.  The  Highlands  of  Scotland,  save  the  equi- 
vocal bastardy  of  Ossian,  have  produced  no  poet  of 
any  fame,  and  yet  mountainous  countries  abound  in 
local  legends,  which  would  seem  to  be  at  variance 
with  this  opinion,  were  it  not  certain,  though  I  can- 
not explain  the  cause,  that  local  poetry,  like  local 
language  or  local  melody,  is  in  proportion  to  the  in- 
terest it  awakens  among  the  local  inhabitants,  weak 
and  ineffectual  in  its  influence  on  the  sentiments  of 
the  general  world.  The  Rans  de  Vaches,  the  most 
celebrated  of  ail  local  airs,  is  tame  and  common- 
place,— ^unmelodious,  to  all  ears  but  those  of  the 
Swiss  "  forlorn  in  a  foreign  land." 

While  in  Cheltenham,  Mrs.  Byron  consulted  a  for- 
tuneteller respecting  the  destinies  of  her  son,  and 
according  to  her  feminine  notions,  she  was  very  cun- 
ning and  guarded  with  the  sybil,  never  suspecting 
that  she  might  have  been  previously  known,  and, 
unconscious  to  herself,  an  object  of  interest  to  the 
spaewife.  She  endeavoured  to  pass  herself  off  as 
a  maiden  lady,  and  regarded  it  as  no  small  testimony 
of  the  wisdom  of  the  oracle,  that  she  declared  her  to 
be  not  only  a  married  woman,  but  the  mother  of  a 
SQU  who  was  lame.  After  such  a  marvellous  proof 
of  second-sightedness,  it  may  easily  be  conceived 


■4 


.  "1 


^r    ' 


!:   iilllitili 


li'llii':;!! 


!  Ill"  HI; 


40 


THE  LIFE   OF 


M     IIP    li!i';, 


i  I' 


with  what  awe  and  faith  she  listened  to  the  predic- 
tion, that  his  life  should  be  in  danger  from  poison 
before  he  was  of  age,  and  that  he  should  be  twice 
married ;  the  second  time  to  a  foreign  lady.  Whe- 
ther it  was  this  same  fortuneteller  who  foretold  that 
he  would,  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  incur  some 
great  misfortune,  is  not  certain ;  but,  considering  his 
unhappy  English  marriage,  and  his  subsequent  Ita- 
lian liaison  with  the  Countess  GuiccioH,  the  marital 
prediction  was  not  far  from  receiving  its  accom- 
plishment. The  fact  of  his  marriage  taking  place  in 
his  twenty-seventh  year,  is  at  least  a  curious  circum- 
stance, and  has  been  noticed  by  himself  with  a  sen- 
timent of  superstition. 


mn 


CHAPTER  IV. 


iiiiiiiii 


'ii'ii 
ii';'i; 


m 

'is' 

m 


Placed  at  Harrow— Progress  there— Love  for  Miss  Chaworth—His 
Reading— Oratorical  Powers. 

In  passing  from  the  quiet  academy  of  Dulwicli 
Gjrove  to  the  public  school  of  Harrow,  the  change 
must  have  been  great  to  any  boy — to  Byron  it  was 
punishment;  and  for  the  first  year  and  a  half  he 
hated  the  place.  In  the  end,  however,  he  rose  to  be 
a  leader  in  all  the  sports  and  mischiefs  of  his  school- 
fellows ;  but  it  never  could  be  said  that  he  was  a  po- 
pular boy,  however  much  he  was  distinguished  for 
spirit  and  bravery ;  for  if  he  was  not  quarrelsome, 
he  was  sometimes  vindictive.  Still  it  could  not  have 
been  to  any  inveterate  degree ;  for,  undoubtedly,  in 
his  younger  years,  he  was  susceptible  of  warm  im- 
pressions from  gentle  treatment,  and  his  obstinacy 
and  arbitrary  humour  were  perhaps  more  the  effects 
of  unrepressed  habit  than  of  natural  bias ;  they  were 
the  prickles  which  surrounded  his  genius  in  the  bud. 


LORD   BYRON. 


41 


rich 


po- 

for 

^me, 

lave 

.,in 

im- 

Jiacy 

lects 

rere 

)ud. 


At  Harrow  he  acquired  no  distinction  as  a  stu- 
dent; indeed,  at  no  period  was  he  remarkable  for 
steady  appUcation.  Under  Dr.  Glennie  he  had  made 
but  little  progress ;  and  it  was  chiefly  in  consequence 
of  his  backwardness  that  he  was  removed  from  his 
academy.  When  placed  with  Dr.  Drury,  it  was  with 
an  intimation  that  he  had  a  cleverness  about  him,  but 
that  his  education  had  been  neglected. 

The  early  dislike  which  Byron  felt  towards  the 
Eai'.  of  Carlisle  is  abundantly  well  known,  and  he 
li?  i  the  magnanimity  to  acknowledge  that  it  was 
in  some  respects  unjust.  But  the  antipathy  was  not 
all  on  one  side ;  nor  will  it  be  easy  to  parallel  the 
conduct  of  the  Earl  with  that  of  any  guardian.  It  is 
but  justice,  therefore,  to  Byron,  to  make  the  public 
aware  that  the  dislike  began  on  the  part  of  Lord 
Carlisle,  and  originated  in  some  distaste  which  he 
took  to  Mrs.  Byron's  manners,  and  at  the  trouble 
she  sometimes  gave  him  on  account  of  her  son. 

Dr.  Drury,  in  his  communication  to  Mr.  Moore 
respecting  the  early  history  of  Byron,  mentions  a  sin- 
gular circumstance  as  to  this  subject,  which  we  re- 
cord with  the  more  pleasure,  because  Byron  has  been 
blamed,  and  has  blamed  himself  for  his  irreverence 
towards  Lord  Carlisle,  while  it  appears  that  the  fault 
lay  with  the  Earl. 

"After  some  continuance  at  Harrow,"  says  Dr. 
Drury,  "  and  when  the  powers  of  his  mind  had  begun 
to  expand,  the  late  Lord  Carlisle,  his  relation,  de- 
sired to  see  me  in  town.  I  waited  on  his  Lordship. 
His  object  was  to  inform  me  of  Lord  Lyron's  expec- 
tations of  property  when  he  came  of  age,  which  he 
represented  as  contracted,  and  to  inquire  respecting 
his  abilities.  On  the  former  circumstance  I  made 
no  remark ;  as  to  the  latter,  I  replied, '  He  has  ta- 
lents, my  Lord,  which  will  add  lustre  to  his  rank.' 
*  Indeed,'  said  his  Lordship,  with  a  degree  of  surprise, 
that,  according  to  my  feelings,  did  not  express  in  it 
all  the  satisfaction  I  expected." 

D2 


■■J 


42 


THE   LIFE   OV 


lijip'!. 


Lord  Carlisle  had,  indeed,  much  of  the  B3rron  hu- 
mour in  him.  His  mother  was  a  sister  of  the  homi- 
cidal lord,  and  possessed  some  of  the  family  pecu- 
liarity:  she  was  endowed  with  great  talent,  and  in 
her  latter  days  she  exhibited  gieat  singularity.  She 
wrote  beautiful  verses  and  piquant  epigrams ;  amonir 
others,  there  is  a  poetical  effusion  of  her  pen  ad- 
dressed to  Mrs.  Greville,  on  her  Ode  to  Indifference, 
which,  a'  the  time,  was  much  admired,  and  has  been, 
with  other  poems  of  her  Ladyship,  published  in 
Pearch's  collection.  After  movmg,  for  a  long  time, 
as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  orbs  in  the  sphere  of 
fashion,  she  suddenly  retired,  and  like  her  morose 
brother,  shut  herself  up  from  the  world.  While  she 
lived  in  this  seclusion,  she  became  an  object  of  the 
sportive  satire  of  the  late  Mr.  Fox,  who  character- 
ized her  as 

Carlisle,  reclase  in  pride  and  rags. 


•r  ill. 


!i",'l   I 


I'll':- 


1  have  heard  a  still  coarser  apostrophe  by  the  same 
gentleman.  It  seems  they  had  quarrelled,  and  on  his 
leaving  her  in  the  drawing-room,  she  called  after  him, 
that  he  might  go  about  his  business,  for  she  did  not 
care  two  skips  of  a  louse  for  him.  On  coming  to 
the  hall,  finding  paper  and  ink  on  the  table,  he  wrote 
two  lines  in  answer,  and  sent  it  up  to  her  Ladyship, 
to  the  effect  that  she  always  spoke  of  what  was  run- 
ning in  her  head. 

Byron  has  borne  testimony  to  the  merits  of  his 
guardian,  her  son,  as  a  tragic  poet,  by  characterizing 
his  publications  as  paper  books.  It  is,  however, 
said,  that  they  nevertheless  showed  some  talent,  and 
that  The  Father's  Revenge,  one  of  the  tragedies, 
was  submitted  to  the  judgment  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who 
did  not  despise  it. 

But  to  return  to  the  progress  of  Byron  at  Harrow ; 
it  is  certain  that  notwithstanding  the  affectionate  so- 
licitude of  Dr.  Drury  to  encourage  him,  he  never  be- 


tmtm 


LORB  BTRON. 


43 


came  an  eminent  scholar ;  at  least,  we  have  his  own 
testimony  to  that  effect,  in  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe 
Harold ;  the  lines,  however,  in  which  l.*at  testimony 
stands  recorded,  are  among  the  weakest  he  ever 
penned. 

May  he  who  will  his  recollections  rake 
And  quote  in  classic  raptures,  and  awake 
The  hills  with  Latian  echoes :  I  abhorr'd 
Too  much  to  conquer,  for  the  poet's  sake, 
The  drill'd,  dull  lesson  forced  down  word  by  word, 
In  my  repugnant  youth  with  pleasure  to  record. 

And,  as  an  apology  for  the  defect,  he  makes  the  fol- 
lowing remarks  in  a  note  subjoined : — 

"  I  wish  to  express  that  we  become  tired  of  ihe  task 
before  we  can  comprehend  the  beauty ;  that  we  learn 
by  rote  before  we  can  get  by  heart ;  that  the  fresh- 
ness is  worn  away,  and  the  future  pleasure  and  ad- 
vantage deadened  and  destroyed  by  the  didactic 
anticipation,  at  an  age  when  we  can  neither  feel  nor 
understand  the  power  of  compositions,  which  it  re- 
quires an  acquaintance  with  life,  as  well  as  Latin  and 
Greek,  to  relish  or  to  reason  upon.  For  the  same 
reason,  we  never  can  be  aware  of  the  fulness  of  some 
of  the  finest  passages  of  Shakspeare  (*  To  be,  or  not 
to  be,'  for  instance)  from  the  habit  of  having  them 
hammered  into  us  at  eight  years  old,  as  an  exercise 
not  of  mind  but  of  memory ;  so  that  when  we  are 
old  enough  to  enjoy  them,  the  taste  is  gone,  and  the 
appetite  palled.  In  some  parts  of  the  continent, 
young  persons  are  taught  from  mere  common  authors, 
and  do  not  read  the  best  classics  until  their  maturity. 
I  certainly  do  not  speak  on  this  point  from  any  pique 
or  aversion  towards  the  place  of  my  education.  I 
was  not  a  slow  or  an  idle  boy ;  and  I  believe  no  one 
could  be  more  attached  to  Harrow  than  I  have  always 
been,  and  with  reason :  a  part  of  the  time  passed 
there  was  the  happiest  of  my  life ;  and  my  preceptor, 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Joseph  Drury,  was  the  best  and  wor- 
thiest friend  I  ever  possessed;  whose  warnings  I 


.-'/ 


44 


THE  LIFE  OF 


1 1 

.ll:l.,(;ril  III 


mm, 


ll'',V 


!l^^ 


(11!^^ 


have  remembered  but  too  well,  though  too  late,  when 
I  have  erred ;  and  whose  counsels  I  have  but  fol- 
lowed when  I  have  done  well  and  wisely.  If  ever 
this  imperfect  record  of  my  feelings  towards  him 
should  reach  his  eyes,  let  it  remind  him  of  one  who 
never  thinks  of  him  but  with  gratitude  and  venera- 
tion ;  of  one  who  would  more  gladly  boast  of  having 
been  his  pupil  if,  by  more  closely  following  his  in- 
junctions, he  could  reflect  any  honour  upon  his  in- 
structer." 

Lord  Byron,  however,  Is  not  singular  in  his  opinion 
of  the  inutility  of  premature  classical  studies ;  and 
notwithstanding  the  able  manner  in  which  the  late 
Dean  Vincent  defended  public  education,  we  have 
some  notion  that  his  reasoning  upon  this  point  will 
not  be  deemed  conclusive.  Milton,  says  Dr.  Vincent, 
complained  of  the  years  that  were  wasted  in  teaching 
the  dead  languages.  Cowley  also  complained  that 
classical  education  taught  words  only  and  not  things; 
and  Addison  deemed  it  an  inexpiable  error,  that 
boys  with  genius  or  without  were  all  to  be  bred 
poets  indiscriminately.  As  far,  then,  as  respects 
the  education  of  a  poet,  we  should  think  that  the 
names  of  Milton,  Cowley,  Addison,  and  Byron  would 
go  well  to  settle  the  question ;  especially  when  it  is 
recollected  how  little  Shakspeare  was  indebted  to 
the  study  of  the  classics,  and  that  Bums  knew 
nothing  of  them  at  all.  I  do  not,  however,  adopt 
the  opinion  as  correct;  neither  do  I  think  that  Dean 
Vincent  took  a  right  view  of  the  subject ;  for,  as 
discipline,  the  study  of  the  classics  may  be  highly 
useful,  at  the  same  time,  the  mere  hammering  of 
Greek  and  Latin  into  English  cannot  be  very  condu- 
cive to  the  refinement  of  taste  or  the  exaltation  of 
sentiment.  Nor  is  there  either  common  sense  or 
correct  logic  in  the  following  observations  made  on 
the  passage  and  note,  quoted  by  the  anonymous 
author  of  Childe  Harold's  Monitor. 

'*  This  doctrine  of  antipathies,  contracted  by  the 


LORD   BYROIC. 


45 


impatience  of  youth  against  the  noblest  authors  of 
antiquity,  from  the  circumstance  of  having  been 
made  the  vehicle  of  early  instruction,  is  a  most  dan- 
gerous doctrine  indeed ;  since  it  strikes  at  the  root, 
not  only  of  all  pure  taste,  but  of  all  praiseworthy  in- 
dustry. It  would,  if  acted  upon  (as  Harold  by  the 
mention  of  the  continental  practice  of  using  inferior 
writers  in  the  business  of  tuition  would  seem  to 
recommend),  destroy  the  great  source  of  the  intel- 
lectual vigour  of  our  countrymen." 

This  is,  undoubtedly,  assuming  too  much;  for 
those  who  have  objected  to  the  years  "wasted"  in 
teaching  the  dead  languages,  do  not  admit  that  the 
labour  of  acquiring  them  either  improves  the  taste 
or  adds  to  the  vigour  of  the  understanding;  and, 
therefore,  before  the  soundness  of  the  opinion  of 
Milton,  of  Cowley,  of  Addison,  and  of  many  other 
great  men,  can  be  rejected,  it  falls  on  those  who  are 
of  Dean  Vincent's  opinion,  and  that  of  Childe  Ha- 
rold's Monitor,  to  prove  that  the  study  of  the  learned 
languages  is  of  so  much  primary  importance  as  they 
claim  for  it. 

But  it  appears  that  Byron's  mind,  during  the  early 
period  of  his  residence  at  Harrow,  was  occupied  with 
another  object  than  his  studies,  and  which  may  partly 
account  for  his  inattention  to  them.  He  fell  in  love 
with  Mary  Chaworth.  "  She  was,"  he  is  represented 
to  have  said,  "  several  years  older  than  myself,  but 
at  my  age  boys  like  something  older  than  themselves, 
as  they  do  younger  later  in  life.  Our  estates  ad- 
joined, but  owing  to  the  unhappy  circumstances  of 
the  feud  (the  affair  of  the  fatal  duel),  our  families,  as 
is  generally  the  case  with  neighbours,  who  happen 
to  be  near  relations,  were  never  on  terms  of  more 
than  common  civility,  scarcely  those.  She  was  the 
beau  ideal  of  all  that  my  youthful  fancy  could  paint 
of  beautiful !  and  I  have  taken  all  my  fables  about 
the  celestial  nature  of  women  from  the  perfection 
my  imagination  created  in  her.    I  say  created,  for 


■T\ 


^1  ' 


46 


THE   LIFE   07 


i    '    h' 


I  found  her,  like  the  rest  of  the  sex,  any  thing  but 
angelic.  I  returned  to  Harrow,  after  my  trip  to 
Cheltenham,  more  deeply  enamoured  than  ever,  and 
passed  the  next  holydays  at  Newstead.  I  now  began 
to  fancy  myself  a  man,  and  to  make  love  in  earnest. 
Our  meetings  were  stolen  ones,  and  my  letters 
passed  through  the  medium  of  a  confidant.  A  gate 
leading  from  Mr.  Chaworth's  grounds  to  those  of  my 
mother,  was  the  place  of  our  interviews,  but  the 
ardour  was  all  on  my  side ;  I  was  serious,  she  was 
volatile.  She  liked  me  as  a  younger  brother,  and 
treated  and  laughed  at  me  as  a  boy ;  she,  however, 
gave  me  her  picture,  and  that  was  something  to  make 
verses  upon.  Had  I  married  Miss  Chaworth,  perhaps 
the  whole  tenor  of  my  life  would  have  been  different ; 
she  jilted  me,  however,  but  her  marriage  proved  any 
thing  but  a  happy  one."  It  is  to  this  attacliment  that 
we  are  indebted  for  the  beautiful  poem  of  The  Dream, 
and  to  the  stanzas  beginning 


II  ; 


,  Oh,  had  my  fbte  been  Joined  to  thine ! 

Although  this  love  affair  a  little  interfered  with  his 
Greek  and  Latin,  his  time  was  not  passed  without 
some  attention  to  reading.  Until  he  was  eighteen 
years  old,  he  had  never  seen  a  review ;  but  his  gene- 
ral information  was  so  extensive  on  modem  topics, 
as  to  induce  a  suspicion  that  he  could  only  have  col- 
lected so  much  information  from  reviews,  as  he  was 
never  seen  reading,  but  always  idle,  and  in  mischief, 
or  at  play.  He  was,  however,  a  devourer  of  books ; 
he  read  eating,  read  in  bed,  read  when  no  one  else 
read,  and  had  perused  all  sorts  of  books  from  the  time 
he  first  could  spell,  but  had  never  read  a  review,  and 
knew  not  what  the  name  implied. 

It  should  be  here  noticed,  that  while  he  was  at 
Harrow,  his  qualities  were  rather  oratorical  than 
poetical ;  and  if  an  opinion  had  then  been  formed  of 
the  likely  result  of  his  character,  the  prognostication 


^ 


'ill  I 


LORD   BYRON. 


4T 


would  have  led  to  the  expectation  of  an  orator.  Alto- 
gether, his  conduct  at  Harrow  indicated  a  clever,  but 
not  an  extraordinary  boy.  He  formed  a  few  friend- 
ships there,  in  which  his  attachment  appears  to  have 
been,  in  some  instances,  remarkable.  The  late  Duke 
of  Dorset  was  his  fag,  and  he  was  not  considered  a 
very  hard  taskmaster.  He  certainly  did  not  carry 
witn  him  from  Harrow  any  anticipation  of  that  SDlen- 
did  career  he  was  destined  to  run  as  a  poet. 


!  ^ 


CHAPTER  V. 


Character  at  Harrow— Poetical  Predilections— Byron  at  Cambridge— 
His  "  Hours  qf  Idleness,^ 

In  reconsidering  the  four  years  which  Byron  spent 
at  Harrow,  while  we  can  clearly  trace  the  develope- 
ment  of  the  sensibilities  of  his  character,  and  an  in- 
creased tension  of  his  susceptibility,  by  which  im- 
pressions became  more  acute  and  delicate,  it  seems 
impossible  not  to  perceive  by  the  records  which  he 
has  himself  left  of  his  feelings,  that  something  mor- 
bid was  induced  upon  them.  Had  he  not  afterward 
so  magnificently  distinguished  himself  as  a  poet,  it  is 
not  probable  that  he  would  have  been  recollected  by 
his  schoolfellows  as  having  been  in  any  respect  dif- 
ferent from  the  common  herd.  His  activity  and 
spirit,  in  their  controversies  and  quarrels,  were  but 
the  outbreakmgs  of  that  temperament  which  the  dis- 
cipline of  riper  years,  and  the  natural  awe  of  the 
world  afterward  reduced  into  his  hereditary  cast  of 
character,  in  which  so  much  of  sidlenness  and  mis- 
anthropy was  exhibited.  I  cannot,  however,  think 
that  there  was  any  thing  either  in  the  nature  of  his 
pastimes,  or  his  studies,  unfavourable  to  the  forma- 
tion of  the  poetical  character.    His  amusements  were 


!■».■■  1 


11  Hi'; 


4d 


THE   LIFE   OF 


•;l' 


iiiillp'iM!'!. 


;il,':i;i;iM: 


il!h 


¥\^':\ 


■i':\ 


active;  his  reading,  though  without  method,  was  yet 
congenial  to  his  impassioned  imagination ;  and  the 
phantom  of  an  enthusiastic  attachment,  of  which  Miss 
Chaworth  was  not  the  only  object  (for  it  was  alto- 
gether intellectual,  and  shared  with  others),  were  cir- 
cumstances calculated  to  open  various  sources  of  re- 
flection, and  to  concentrate  the  elements  of  an  ener- 
getic and  original  mind. 

But  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  sketch  what  may  have 
been  the  outline  of  a  young  poet's  education.  The 
supposition  that  poets  must  be  dreamers,  because 
there  is  often  much  dreaminess  in  poesy,  is  a  mere 
hypothesis.  Of  all  the  professors  of  metaphysical 
discernment,  poets  require  the  finest  tact ;  and  con- 
templation is  with  them  a  sign  of  inward  abstract  re- 
flection, more  than  of  any  process  of  mind  by  which 
resemblance  is  traced,  and  associations  awakened. 
There  is  no  account  of  any  great  poet,  whose  genius 
tvas  of  that  dreamy  cartilaginous  kind,  which  hath  its 
being  in  haze,  and  draws  its  nourishment  from  lights 
and  shadows ;  which  ponders  over  the  mysteries  of 
trees,  and  interprets  the  oracles  of  babbling. waters. 
They  have  all  been  men — worldly  men,  different  only 
from  others  in  reasoning,  more  by  feeling  than  induc- 
tion. Directed  by  impulse,  in  a  greater  degree  than 
other  men,  poets  are  apt  to  be  betrayed  into  actions 
which  make  them  singular,  as  compared  by  those 
who  are  less  imaginative ;  but  the  effects  of  earnest- 
ness should  never  be  confounded  with  the  qualities 
of  talent. 

No  greater  misconception  has  ever  been  obtruded 
upon  the  world  as  philosophic  criticism,  than  the 
theory  of  poets  being  the  offspring  of  "  capering  lamb- 
kins and  cooing  doves;"  for  they  differ  in  no  re- 
spect from  other  men  of  high  endowment,  but  in  the 
single  circumstance  of  the  objects  to  which  their  taste 
is  attracted.*    The  most  vigorous  poets,  those  who 

*  "  The  greatest  poets  that  ever  lived,"  says  the  tasteAil  author  of  an 
Introduction  to  the  Greek  Classic  Poets,  "  have,  without  exception,  been 


i(Ut}ii«M*<»»«' 


Ill'— I  lii    I  I'l' 


LORD  BYROI^. 


49 


led 
ithe 
lb- 
re- 
he 
jte 


an 
Ben 


nave  influenced  longest  and  are  most  quoted,  have  in- 
deed been  all  men  of  great  shrewdness  of  remark, 
and  any  thing  but  your  chin-on-hand  contemplators. 
To  adduce  many  instances  is  unnecessary.  Are  there 
any  s3anptoms  of  the  gelatinous  character  of  the 
effusions  of  the  Lakers  in  the  compositions  of  Homer  ? 
The  London  Gazette  does  not  tell  us  things  more  like 
facts  than  the  narratives  of  Homer,  and  it  often  states 
facts  that  are  much  more  like  fictions  than  his  most 
poetical  inventions.  So  much  is  this  the  case  with 
the  works  of  all  the  higher  poets,  that  as  they  recede 
from  that  worldly  standard  which  is  found  in  the 
Epics  of  Homer,  they  sink  in  the  scale  of  poets.  In 
what  does  the  inferiority  of  Virgil,  for  example,  con- 
sist, but  in  his  having  hatched  fancies  in  his  contem- 
plations which  the  calm  mind  rejects  as  absurdities. 
Then  Tasso,  with  his  enchanted  forests  and  his  other 
improbabilities ;  are  they  more  than  childish  tales  ? 
tales,  too,  not  in  fancy  to  be  compared  with  those  of 
that  venerable  drynurse,  Mother  Bunch.  Compare 
the  poets  that  babble  of  green  fields  with  those  who 
deal  in  the  actions  and  passions  of  men,  such  as  Shaks- 
peare,  and  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  is  not  those 
who  have  looked  at  external  nature  who  are  the  true 
poets,  but  those  who  have  seen  and  considered  most 
about  the  business  and  bosom  of  man.  It  may  be  an 
advantage  that  a  poet  should  have  the  benefit  of  land- 
scapes and  storms,  as  children  are  the  better  for  coim- 

the  wisest  men  of  their  time ;"  and  he  adds,  "  the  knowledge  of  the 
mind  and  its  powers — of  the  passions  and  their  springs — the  love  and 
study  of  the  beautifal  forms  of  tha  visible  creation, — this  it  is  which  can 
alone  teach  a  man  to  think  in  sympathy  with  the  great  body  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures, and  enable  him  to  draw  back  the  veil  which  different 
manners  and  various  costumes  have  spread  over  the  unchangeable  face 
of  humanity.  In  this  sense,  is  it  not  true  that  Homer,  and  Dante,  and 
Milton  were  learned  in  an  extraordinary  degree  1  but  more  than  all 
Shakspsare : 

'  On  the  tip  of  his  subduing  tongue. 
All  kinds  of  arguments  and  questions  deep, 
All  replication  prompt  and  reason  strong, 
For  his  advantage  still  did  wake  and  sleep. 
To  make  the  weeper  laugh— tho  laugher  weep  1'" 

£ 


*v**r 


50 


THE   LIFE   OF 


t     :.:   \: 


11 


Is 


i(^' 


in : 

it 
j! 

nim.    m 


try  air  and  cow's  milk ;  but  the  true  scene  of  their 
manly  work  and  business  is  in  the  populous  city. 
Inasmuch  as  Byron  was  a  lover  of  solitude,  he  was 
deficient  as  an  obseiver  of  men. 

The  barrenest  portion,  as  to  materials  for  biogra- 
phy in  the  life  of  this  interesting  man,  is  the  period 
he  spent  at  the  University  of  Cambridge.  Like  that 
of  most  young  men,  it  is  probable  the  major  part  of 
his  time  was  passed  between  the  metropolis  and  the 
university.  Still  it  was  in  that  period  he  composed 
the  different  poems  which  make  up  the  little  volume 
of  The  Hours  of  Idleness ;  a  work  which  will  ever 
be  regarded,  more  by  its  consequences  than  its  im- 
portance, as  of  great  influence  on  the  character  and 
career  of  the  poet. 

It  has  been  supposed,  I  see  not  how  justly,  that 
there  was  affectation  in  the  title.  It  is  probable  that 
Byron  intended  no  more  by  it  than  to  imply  that  its 
contents  were  sketches  of  leisure.  This  is  the  less 
doubtful,  as  he  was  at  that  period  particularly  sensi- 
tive concerning  the  opinion  that  might  be  entertained 
of  his  works.  Before  he  made  the  collection,  many 
of  the  pieces  had  been  circulated,  and  he  had  ga- 
thered opinions  as  to  their  merits  with  a  degree  of 
solicitude  that  can  only  be  conceived  by  those  who 
were  acquainted  with  the  constantly  excited  sensi- 
bility of  his  mind.  When  he  did  publish  the  col- 
lection, nothing  appeared  in  the  style  and  form  of 
the  publication  that  indicated  any  arrogance  of  merit. 
On  the  contrary,  it  was  brought  forward  with  a  de- 
gree of  diffidence,  which,  if  it  did  not  deserve  the 
epithet  of  modesty,  could  incur  nothing  harsher  than 
that  of  bashfulness.  It  was  printed  at  the  obscure 
market-town  press  of  Newark,  was  altogether  a  very 
homely,  rustic  work,  and  no  attempt  was  made  to 
bespeak  for  it  a  good  name  from  the  critics.  It  was 
truly  an  innocent  affair  and  an  unpretending  per- 
formance. But  notwithstanding  these,  at  least  seem- 
ing, qualities  of  young  doubtfulness  and  timidity^ 


111 


■  ft 


illll'lliiMlil— li'  illiiii   ItttttM. 


LORD  BYKOX. 


51 


they  did  not  soften  the  austere  nature  of  the  bleak 
and  blighting  criticism  which  was  then  characteristic 
of  Edinburgh. 

A  copy  was  somehow  communicated  to  one  of  the 
critics  in  that  city,  and  was  reviewed  by  him  in  the 
Edinburgh  Review  in  an  article  replete  with  satire 
and  insinuations  calculated  to  prey  upon  the  author's 
feelings,  while  the  injustice  of  the  estimate  which 
was  made  of  his  talent  and  originality,  could  not  but 
be  as  iron  in  his  heart.  Owing  to  the  deep  and  se- 
vere impression  which  it  left,  it  ought  to  be  preserved 
in  every  memoir  which  treats  of  the  developement  of 
his  genius  and  character ;  and  for  this  reason  I  insert 
it  entire,  as  one  of  the  most  influential  documents 
perhaps  in  the  whole  extent  of  biography. 


^  'i    *, 


-.■i 


CHAPTER  VI. 


jnsi- 

col- 
of 

lerit. 
de- 
the 

than 
sure 
ery 
to 
as 
)er- 
jm- 
ity. 


Criticism,  of  the  Edinburgh  Review. 

"  The  poesy  of  this  young  lord  belongs  to  the  class 
which  neither  God  nor  man  are  said  to  permit.  In- 
deed we  do  not  recollect  to  have  seen  a  qup^ntity  of 
verse  with  so  few  deviations  in  either  direction  from 
that  exact  standard.  His  effusions  are  spread  over 
a  dead  flat,  and  can  no  more  get  above  or  below  the 
level  than  if  they  were  so  much  stagnant  water.  As 
an  extenuation  of  this  offence,  the  noble  author  is 
peculiarly  forward  in  pleading  minority.  We  have 
It  in  the  titlepage,  and  on  the  very  back  of  the  vo- 
lume ;  it  follows  his  name  like  a  favourite  part  of  his 
style.  Much  stress  is  laid  upon  it  in  the  preface ; 
and  the  poems  are  connected  with  this  general  state- 
ment of  his  case  by  particular  dates,  substantiating 
the  age  at  which  each  was  written.  Now,  the  law 
upon  the  point  of  minority  we  hold  to  be  perfectly 


M. 


52 


THE   LIFE    OF 


1/1 


clear.  It  is  a  plea  available  only  to  the  defendant ; 
no  plaintiff  can  offer  it  as  a  supplementary  ground 
of  action.  Thus,  if  any  suit  could  be  brought  against 
Lord  Byron,  for  the  purpose  of  compelling  him  to  put 
into  court  a  certain  quantity  of  poetry,  and  if  judg- 
ment were  given  against  him,  it  is  highly  probable 
that  an  exception  would  be  taken,  were  he  to  deliver 
for  poetry  the  contents  of  this  volume.  To  this  he 
might  plead  minority ;  but  as  he  now  makes  volun- 
tary tender  of  the  article,  he  hath  no  right  to  sue  on 
that  ground  for  the  price  in  good  current  praise, 
should  the  goods  be  unmarketable.  This  is  our 
view  of  the  law  on  the  point;  and  we  dare  to  say, 
so  will  it  be  ruled.  Perhaps,  however,  in  reality,  all 
that  he  tells  us  about  his  youth  is  rather  with  a  view 
to  increase  our  wonder,  than  to  soften  our  censures. 
He  possibly  means  to  say,  *  See  how  a  minor  can 
write!  This  poem  was  actually  composed  by  a 
young  man  of  eighteen !  and  this  by  one  of  only  six- 
teen!' But,  alas,  we  all  remember  the  poetry  of 
Cowley  at  ten,  and  Pope  at  twelve;  and,  so  far  from 
hearing  with  any  degree  of  surprise  that  very  poor 
verses  were  written  by  a  youth  from  bis  leaving 
school  to  his  leaving  college  inclusive,  we  really 
believe  this  to  be  the  most  common  of  all  occur- 
rences ; — that  it  happens  in  the  life  of  nine  men  in 
ten  who  are  educated  in  England,  and  that  the  tenth 
man  writes  better  verse  than  Lord  Byron. 

"His  otlier  plea  of  privilege  our  author  brings  for- 
ward to  waive  it.  He  certainly,  however,  does  allude 
frequently  to  his  family  and  ancestors,  sometimes  in 
poetry,  sometimes  in  notes;  and  while  giving  up  his 
claim  on  the  score  of  rank,  he  takes  care  to  remind 
us  of  Dr.  Johnson's  saying,  that  when  a  nobleman 
appears  as  an  author,  his  merit  should  be  handsomely 
acknowledged.  In  truth,  it  is  this  consideration  only 
that  induces  us  to  give  Lord  Byron's  poems  a  place 
in  our  Review,  besides  our  desire  to  counsel  him,  that 
he  do  forthwith  abandon  poetry,  and  turn  his  talents, 


whi( 
are 


.■»^»N^.tV<--*5*V-f  •w-#W*-'-i 


f -ll*-!--*:.--^-^- 


'"•^   ^:»^ 


LORD  BYRON. 


53 


Illy 

jur- 

in 


lor- 
ide 
Is  in 
Ihis 
lind 
lan 
jely 

ly 

ice 
lat 
Its. 


which  are  considerable,  and  his  opportunities,  which 
are  great,  to  better  account. 

"  With  this  view  we  must  beg  leave  seriously  to 
assure  him,  that  the  mere  rhyming  of  the  final  syl- 
lable, even  when  accompanied  by  the  presence  of  a 
certain  number  of  feet ;  nay,  although  (which  does 
not  always  happen)  these  feet  should  scan  regularly, 
and  have  been  all  counted  upon  the  fingers,  is  not  the 
whole  art  of  poetry.  We  would  entreat  him  to  be- 
lieve, that  a  certain  portion  of  liveliness,  somewhat 
of  fancy,  is  necessary  to  constitute  a  poem;  and  that 
a  poem  in  the  present  day,  to  be  read,  must  contain 
at  least  one  thought,  either  in  a  little  degree  diflferent 
from  the  ideas  of  former  writers,  or  differently  ex- 
pressed. We  put  it  to  his  candour,  whether  there  is 
any  thing  so  deserving  the  name  of  poetry,  in  verses 
like  the  following,  ^vritten  in  1806,  and  whether,  if  a 
youth  of  eighteen  could  say  any  thing  so  uninterest- 
ing to  his  ancestors,  a  youth  of  nineteen  should 
publish  it : 

Shades  of  heroes,  farewell !  your  descendant,  departing 
From  the  seat  of  his  ancestors,  bids  you  adieu ; 

Abroad  or  at  home,  your  remembrance  imparting 
New  courage,  be  '11  think  upon  glory  and  you. 

Though  a  tear  dim  his  eye  at  this  sad  separation, 
T  is  nature,  not  fear,  that  excites  his  regret ; 

Far  distant  he  goes  with  the  same  emulation, 
The  fame  of  his  fathers  he  ne'er  can  forget. 

That  fame  and  that  memory  still  will  he  cherish, 
He  vows  that  he  ne'er  will  disgrace  your  renown ; 

Like  you  will  he  live,  or  like  you  will  he  perish. 
When  decay'd,  may  he  mingle  his  dust  with  your  own. 

"  Now,  we  positively  do  assert,  that  there  is  nothing 
better  than  these  stanzas  in  the  whole  compass  of 
the  noble  minor's  volume. 

"  Lord  Byron  should  also  have  a  care  of  attempt- 
ing what  the  greatest  poets  have  done  before  him, 
for  comparisons  (as  he  must  have  had  occasion  to  see 
at  his  writing-master's)  are  odious.  Gray's  Ode  to 
Eton  College  shoidd  really  have  kept  out  the  ten 

£2 


*  t. 


t  ■ 


'% 


I  :!■ 


54 


Tl^  LIFE   OF 


hobbling  stanzas  on  a  distant  view  of  the  village  and 
school  at  Harrow. 

Where  fkncy  yet  joys  to  trace  the  resemblance 
Of  comrades  in  friendship  or  mischief  allied, 

How  welcome  to  me  your  ne'er-fading  remembrance, 
Which  rests  in  the  bosom,  though  hope  is  denied. 

"  In  like  manner,  the  exquisite  lines  of  Mr.  Rogers, 
*  On  a  Tear,'  might  have  warned  the  noble  author 
of  these  premises,  and  spared  us  a  whole  dozen  such 
stanzas  as  the  following: 


jiii|; 


I' 

ill'"    ■  ■ 


|l!i 


W 


hilliii'ii' 


I 


Mild  charity's  glow, 

To  us  mortals  below, 
Shows  the  soul  from  barbarity  clear; 

Compassio'^  will  melt 

Where  the  virtue  is  felt. 
And  its  dew  is  diiilised  in  a  tear. 

The  man  doom'd  to  sail 

With  the  Mast  of  the  gale. 
Through  billows  Atlantic  to  steer, 

As  he  bends  o'er  the  wave, 

Which  may  soon  be  his  grave, 
The  green  sparkles  bright  with  a  tear. 

"  And  so  of  instances  in  which  former  poets  had 
failed.  Thus,  we  do  not  think  Lord  Byron  was  made 
for  translating,  during  his  nonage,  Adrian's  Address 
to  his  Soul,  when  Pope  succeeded  indifferently  in  the 
attempt.  If  our  readers,  however,  are  of  another 
opinion,  they  may  look  at  it. 

Ah!  gentle,  fleeting,  wav'ring sprite. 
Friend  and  associate  of  this  clay, 
To  what  unknown  region  borne 

Wilt  thou  now  wing  thy  distant  flight  ? 
No  more  with  wonted  humour  gay 
But  pallid,  cheerless,  and  forlorn. 

"However,  be  this  as  it  may,  we  fear  his  transla- 
tions and  imitations  are  great  favourites  with  Lord 
Byron.  We  have  them  of  all  kinds,  from  Anacreon 
to  Ossian;  and,  viewing  them  as  school-exercises, 
they  may  pass.   Oiily,  why  print  them  after  they  have 


LORD  BYRON. 


had  their  day  and  served  their  turn  ?  And  why  call 
the  thing  in  p.  79  a  translation,  where  two  words 
(OeXo  Xcyciv)  of  the  Original  are  expanded  into  four  lines, 
and  the  other  thing  in  p.  81,  where  neaowKTiKis  no&  bpais 
is  rendered,  by  means  of  six  hobbling  verses.  As 
to  his  Ossian  poesy,  we  are  not  very  good  judges; 
being,  in  truth,  so  moderately  skilled  in  that  species 
of  composition,  that  we  should,  in  all  probability, 
be  criticising  some  bit  of  genuine  Macpherson  itself 
were  we  to  express  our  opinion  of  Lord  Byron's 
rhapsodies.  If,  then,  the  following  beginning  of  a 
Song  of  Bards  is  by  his  Lordship,  we  venture  to  ob- 
ject to  it,  as  far  as  we  can  comprehend  it :  *  What 
form  rises  on  the  roar  of  clouds,  whose  dark  ghost 
gleams  on  the  red  stream  of  tempests  ?  His  voice 
rolls  on  the  thunder ;  *t  is  Oila,  the  brown  chief  of 
Otchona.  He  was,'  &c.  After  detaining  this  *  brown 
chief  some  time,  the  bards  conclude  by  giving  him 
their  advice  to  *  raise  his  fair  locks ;'  then  to  '  spread 
them  on  the  arch  of  the  rainbow ;'  and  to  *  smile 
through  the  tears  of  the  storm.'  Of  this  kind  of  thing 
there  are  no  less  than  nine  pages :  and  we  can  so  far 
venture  an  opinion  in  their  favour,  that  they  look  very 
like  Macpherson ;  and  we  are  positive  they  are  pretty 
nearly  as  stupid  and  tiresome. 

"  It  is  some  sort  of  privilege  of  poets  to  be  egotists ; 
but  they  should  *  use  it  as  not  abusing  it ;'  and  par- 
ticularly one  who  piques  himself  (though,  indeed,  at 
the  ripe  age  of  nineteen)  on  being  an  infant  bard — 


The  artless  Helicon  I  boast  is  youth, 

should  either  not  know,  or  should  seem  not  to  know, 
so  much  about  his  own  ancestry.  Besides  a  poem, 
above  cited,  on  the  family-seat  of  the  Byrons,  we 
have  another  of  eleven  pages  on  the  selfsame  subject, 
introduced  with  an  apology,  *  he  certainly  had  no  in- 
tention of  inserting  it,'  but  really  'the  particular  re- 
quest of  some  friends,'  &c.  &c.    It  concludes  with 


iHii  4  \  \ 


K  iiliii 


56 


THE  LCPB   07 


'II   'id  '.I,    "Pi'  »,l 


liwil^liiU,'* 


:<:  ^H 


I',  ■     ■! 


five  stanzas  on  himself,  '  the  last  and  youngest  of 
the  noble  line.*  There  is  also  a  good  deal  about  his 
maternal  ancestors,  in  a  poem  on  Lachion-y-6air,  a 
mountain,  where  he  spent  part  of  his  youth,  and  might 
have  learned  that  pibroach  is  not  a  bagpipe,  any  more 
than  a  duet  means  a  fiddle. 

'*  As  the  author  has  dedicated  so  large  a  part  of  his 
volume  to  inunortalize  his  employments  at  school  and 
college,  we  cannot  possibly  dismiss  it  without  pre- 
senting the  reader  with  a  specimen  of  these  inge- 
nious effusions. 

"  In  an  ode,  with  a  Greek  motto,  called  Grantat 
we  have  the  following  magnificent  stanzs-s — 

There,  in  apartments  small  and  damp, 

The  candidate  for  college  prizes 
Sits  poring  by  the  midnight  lamp, 

Goes  late  to  bed,  yet  early  rises: 
Who  reads  false  quantities  in  Seale, 

Or  puzzles  o*er  the  deep  triangle, 
Depriv'd  of  many  a  wholesome  meal, 

In  barbarous  Latin  doom'd  to  wrangle. 

Renouncing  every  pleasing  page 

From  authors  of  historic  use ; 
Preferring  to  the  lettered  sage 

The  square  of  the  hypotenuse. 
,  Still  harmless  are  these  occupations, 

That  hurt  none  but  the  hapless  student, 
Compared  with  other  recreations 

Which  bring  together  the  imprudent. 

"  We  are  sorry  to  hear  so  bad  an  account  of  the 
college-psalmody,  as  is  contained  in  the  following 
attic  stanzas : 

Our  choir  could  scarcely  be  excused, 

Even  as  a  band  of  raw  beginners ; 
All  mercy  now  must  be  refused 

To  such  a  set  of  croaking  sinners. 

If  David,  whenhis  toils  were  ended, 
Had  heard  these  blockheads  sing  before  him, 

To  us  his  psalms  had  ne'er  descended— 
In  flirious  mood  he  would  have  tore  'em. 

**  But  whatever  judgment  may  be  passed  on  the 
poems  of  this  noble  minor,  it  seems  we  must  take 


the^ 

the 

he 

sus 

poel 

taini 

late  I 

no 


m. 


■Mil 


LORD  BYRON. 


57 


them  as  we  find  them,  and  be  content :  for  they  are 
the  last  we  shall  ever  have  from  him.  He  is  at  best, 
he  says,  but  an  intruder  into  the  groves  of  Parnas- 
sus ;  ne  never  lived  in  a  garret,  like  thorough-bred 
poets,  and  though  he  once  roved  a  careless  moun- 
taineer in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  he  has  not  of 
late  enjoyed  this  advantage.  Moreover,  he  expects 
no  profit  from  his  publication ;  and  whether  it  suc- 
ceeds or  not,  it  is  highly  improbable,  from  his  situa- 
tion and  pursuits,  that  he  should  again  condescend 
to  become  an  author.  Therefore,  let  us  take  what 
we  get  and  be  thankful.  What  right  have  we  poor 
devils  to  be  nice?  We  are  well  off  to  have  got  so 
much  from  a  man  of  this  lord's  station,  who  does 
not  live  in  a  garret,  but  has  got  the  sway  of  New- 
stead  Abbey.  Again  we  say,  let  us  be  thankful; 
and,  with  honest  Sancho,  bid  God  bless  the  giver, 
nor  look  the  gift-horse  in  the  mouth." 

The  criticism  is  ascribed  to  Mr.  Francis  Jeffrey, 
an  eloquent  member  of  the  Scottish  bar,  and  who 
was  at  that  time  supposed  to  be  the  editor  of  the 
Edinburgh  Review.  That  it  was  neither  just  nor 
fair  is  suflSciently  evident,  by  the  degree  of  care  and 
artificial  point  with  which  it  has  been  drawn  up. 
Had  the  poetry  been  as  insignificant  as  the  critic 
affected  to  consider  it,  it  would  have  argued  little  for 
the  judgment  of  Mr.  Jeffrey,  to  take  so  much  pains 
on  a  work  which  he  considered  worthless.  But  the 
world  has  no  cause  to  repine  at  the  severity  of  his 
strictures,  for  they  unquestionably  had  the  effect  of 
kindling  the  indignation  of  Byron,  and  of  mstigating 
him  to  that  retaliation  which  he  so  spiritedly  in- 
flicted in  his  satire  of  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
"■dewers. 

,  It  is  amusing  to  compare  the  respective  literary 
reputation  of  the  poet  and  the  critic,  as  they  are  esti 
mated  by  the  public,  now  that  the  one  is  dead,  and 
the  other  dormant.    The  voice  of  all  the  age  ac« 


r 

f 


'  'Uii 


68 


THE   LIFB   OF 


nf\ 


2 


vi'  . 


I  'Mil'  5^1: 


mm 


'''I 

i 


|:il' 


:!! 


H.  '-If'  '' 


knowledges  Bjrron  to  have  been  the  greatest  poetical 
genius  of  his  time.  Mr.  Jeffrey,  though  still  eryoy- 
ing  the  renown  of  being  a  shrewd  and  intelligent 
critic  of  the  productions  of  others,  has  established  no 
right  to  the  honour  of  being  an  original  or  eminent 
author. 

At  the  time  when  Byron  published  the  satire 
alluded  to,  he  had  obtained  no  other  distinction  than 
the  college  reputation  of  being  a  clever,  careless,  dis- 
sipated student.  But  his  dissipation  was  not  in- 
tense, nor  did  it  ever  become  habitual.  He  affected 
to  be  much  more  so  than  he  was :  his  pretensions 
were  moderated  by  constitutional  incapacity.  His 
health  was  not  vigorous ;  and  his  delicacy  defeated 
his  endeavours  to  show  that  he  inherited  the  reck- 
lessness of  his  father.  He  affected  extravagance 
and  eccentricity  of  conduct,  without  yielding  much 
to  the  one,  or  practising  a  great  deal  of  the  other. 
He  was  seeking  notoriety ;  and  his  attempts  to  ob- 
tain it  gave  more  method  to  his  pranks  and  follies 
than  belonged  to  the  results  oi  natural  impulse  and 
passion.  He  evinced  occasional  instances  of  the 
generous  spirit  of  youth;  but  there  was  in  them 
more  of  ostentation  than  of  that  discrimination 
which  dignifies  kindness,  and  makes  prodigality  mu- 
nificence. Nor  were  his  attachments  towards  those 
with  whom  he  preferred  to  associate,  characterized 
by  any  nobler  sentiment  than  self-indulgence;  he 
was  attached,  more  from  the  pleasure  he  himself  re- 
ceived in  their  society,  than  from  any  reciprocal  en- 
joyment they  had  with  him.  As  he  became  a  man 
of  the  world,  his  early  friends  dropped  from  him ; 
although  it  is  evident,  by  all  the  contemporary  re- 
cords of  his  feelings,  that  he  cherished  for  them  a 
kind,  and  even  brotherly,  affection.  This  secession, 
the  common  effect  of  the  new  cares,  hopes,  interests, 
and  wishes,  which  young  men  feel  on  entering  the 
world,  B3rron  regarded  as  something  analogous  to 
desertion ;  and  the  notion  tainted  his  mind,  and  irri- 


tat( 
con 
pos 
A 
ecci 
toe 

in 

that 

ofh 

rose 

at 

whii 

som< 

thel 

ligio 

rem! 


'ii-'i'i   m 


LORD   BVRON. 


50 


tated  that  hereditary  suUenness  of  humour,  which 
constituted  an  ingredient  so  remarkable  in  the  com- 
position of  his  more  mature  character. 

An  anecdote  of  this  period,  characteristic  of  his 
eccentricity,  and  the  means  which  lie  scrupled  not 
to  employ  in  indulging  it,  deserves  to  be  mentioned. 

In  repairing  Newstead  Abbey,  a  scull  was  found 
in  a  secret  niche  of  the  walls.  It  might  have  been 
that  of  the  monk  which  haunted  the  house,  or  of  one 
of  his  own  ancestors,  or  of  some  victim  of  the  mo- 
rose race.  It  was  converted  into  a  goblet,  and  used 
at  Odin-like  orgies.  Though  the  affair  was  but  a 
whim  of  youth,  more  odious  than  poetical,  it  caused 
some  talk,  and  raised  around  the  e^itravagant  host 
the  haze  of  a  mystery,  suggesting  fantasies  of  irre- 
ligion  and  horror.  The  inscription  on  the  cup  is  not 
remarkable  either  for  point  or  poetry. 

Start  not,  nor  deem  my  apirit  fled ; 
In  me  behold  the  only  scull 
From  which,  unlike  a  living  head, 
Whatever  flows  is  never  dull. 

I  liv'd,  I  lov'd,  I  quafi^d  like  thee ; 
I  died,  but  earth  my  bones  resign : 
Fill  up— thou  canst  not  injure  me, 
The  worm  hath  fouler  lips  than  thine. 

Better  to  hold  the  sparkling  grape 
Than  nurse  the  earth-worm's  slimy  brood, 
And  circle  in  the  goblet's  shape 
The  drink  of  gods  than  reptile's  food. 

Where  once  my  wit  perchance  hath  shone. 
In  aid  of  others  let  me  shine ; 
And  when,  alas,  our  brains  are  gone, 
What  nobler  substitute  than  wine  ? 

Quaff  while  thou  canst— another  race. 
When  thou  and  thine  like  me  are  sped, 
May  rescue  thee  from  earth's  embrace, 
And  rhyme  and  revel  with  the  dead. 

Why  not  7  since  through  life's  little  day, 
Our  heads  such  sad  effects  produce ; 
Redeem'd  from  worms  and  wasting  clay. 
This  chance  is  theirs,  to  be  of  use. 


60 


THE   LIFE   or 


CHAPTER  VII. 


I:i;!'i'li!ii|'" 


lilt! 


Effect  of  the  Criticism  in  the  Edinburgh  Review— English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Wfuiewers — His  Satiety — Intention  to  Travel — Publishes  his 
Satire — Takes  his  Seat  in  tlie  House  of  Lords— Departs /or  Lisbon; 
thence  to  Gibraltar. 

The  impression  which  the  criticism  of  the  Edin- 
burgh Review  produced  upon  the  juvenile  poet  was 
deep  and  envenomed.  It  stung  his  heart,  and 
prompted  liim  to  excess.  But  the  paroxysms  did 
not  endure  long;  strong  vohtions  of  revenge  suc- 
ceeded, and  the  grasps  of  his  mind  were  filled,  as  it 
were,  with  writhing  adders.  All  the  world  knows, 
that  this  unquenchable  indignation  found  relief  in 
the  composition  of  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Re- 
viewers ;  a  satire  which,  in  many  passages,  equals, 
in  fervour  and  force,  the  most  vigorous  in  the  lan- 
guage. 

It  was  during  the  summer  of  1808,  while  the  poet 
was  residing  at  Newstead,  that  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers  was  principally  written.  He  be- 
stowed more  pains  upon  it  than  perhaps  on  any 
other  of  his  works;  and,  though  different  from 
them  all,  it  still  exhibits  strong  indications  of  the 
misanthropy  with  which,  after  quitting  Cambridge, 
he  became  more  and  more  possessed.  It  is  painful 
to  reflect,  in  considering  the  splendid  energy  dis- 
played in  the  poem,  that  the  unprovoked  malice 
which  directed  him  to  make  the  satire  so  general, 
was,  perhaps,  the  main  cause  of  that  disposition  to 
wither  his  reputation,  which  was  afterward  so  fer- 
vently roused.  He  could  not  but  expect,  that,  in 
stigmatizing  with  contempt  and  ridicule  so  many 
persons  by  name,  some  of  them  would  retaliate. 
Nor  could  he  complain  of  injustice  if  they  did ;  for 
his  attack  was  so  wilful,  that  the  rage  of  it  can  only 
be  explained  by  supposing  he  was  instigated  to  "  the 


LORD   BYRON.  W 

one  fell  swoop,"  by  a  resentful  conviction,  *at  his 
impillory  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  had  amused 
them  all. 

I  do  not  conceive,  that  the  generality  o(  the  satire 
can  be  well  extenuated ;  but  I  am  not  inclined  to 
regard  it  as  having  been  a  very  heinous  offence. 
The  ability  displayed  in  it  is  a  sufficient  compensa- 
tion. The  beauty  of  the  serpent's  skin  appeases 
the  aversion  to  its  nature.  Moreover,  a  toothless 
satire  is  verse  without  poetry — the  most  odious  of 
all  respectable  things.  ^ 

But,  without  regard  to  the  merits  or  delinquency 
of  the  poem,  to  the  acumen  of  its  animadversions, 
or  to  the  polish  of  the  lines,  it  possesses,  in  the 
biography  of  the  author,  a  value  of  the  most  interest- 
ing kind.  It  was  the  first  burst  of  that  dark,  diseased 
ichor,  which  afterward  coloured  his  effusions ;  the 
overflowing  suppuration  of  that  satiety  and  loathing, 
which  rendered  Childe  Harold,  in  particular,  so 
original,  incomprehensible,  and  antisocial ;  and  bears 
testimony  to  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  that  import- 
ant epoch,  while  he  was  yet  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  world,  and  was  entering  it  with  a  sense  of  fail- 
ure and  humiUation,  and  premature  disgust.  For,, 
notwithstanding  his  unnecessary  expositions  con- 
cerning his  dissipation,  it  is  beyond  controversy, 
that  at  no  time  could  it  be  said  he  was  a  dissipated 
young  man.  That  he  indulged  in  occasional  ex- 
cesses is  true ;  but  his  habits  were  never  libertine, 
nor  did  his  health  or  stamina  permit  him  to  be  dis- 
tinguished  in  licentiousness.  The  declaration  in 
which  he  first  discloses  his  sobriety,  contains  more 
truth  than  all  his  pretensions  to  his  father's  qualities. 
"  I  took  my  gradations  in  the  vices,"  sayis  he,  in 
that  remarkable  confession,  "  with  great  prompti- 
tude, but  they  were  not  to  my  taste ;  for  my  early 
passions,  though  violent  in  the  extreme,  were  con- 
centrated, and  hated  division  or  spreading  abroad. 
I  could  have  left  or  lost  the  whole  world  with  or  for 

F 


■r 


l:;il  -i    T 


62 


THE  LIFE   OF 


ii'i'   , 


that  which  I  loved ;  but,  though  my  temperament 
was  naturally  burning,  I  could  not  share  in  the 
common  libertinism  of  the  place  -and  time  without 
disgust ;  and  yet  this  very  disgust,  and  my  heart 
thrown*  back  upon  itself,  threw  me  into  excesses 
perhaps  more  fatal  than  those  from  which  I  shrunk, 
as  fixing  upon  one  at  a  time  the  passions,  which, 
spread  among  many,  would  have  hurt  only  myself/* 
This  is  vague  and  metaphysical  enough;  but  it 
bears  corroborative  intimations,  that  the  impression 
which  he  early  made  upon  me  was  not  incorrect. 
He  was  vain  of  his  experiments  in  profligacy,  but 
they  never  grew  to  habitude. 

While  he  was  engaged  in  the  composition  of  his 
satire,  he  formed  a  plan  of  travelling;  but  there 
was  a  great  shortcoming  between  the  intention  and 
the  performance.  He  first  thought  of  Persia ; — ^he 
afterward  resolved  to  sail  for  India ;  and  had  so  far 
matured  this  project,  as  to  write  for  information  to 
the  Arabic  professor  at  Cambridge ;  and  to  his  mo- 
ther, who  was  not  then  with  him  at  Newstead,  to 
inquire  of  a  friend,  who  had  resided  in  India,  what 
things  would  be  necessary  for  the  voyage.  He 
'  formed  his  plan  of  travelling  upon  different  reasons 
from  those  which  he  afterward  gave  out,  and  which 
have  been  imputed  to  him.  He  then  thought  that 
all  men  should  in  some  period  of  their  lives  travel ; 
he  had  at  that  time  no  tie  to  prevent  him ;  he  con- 
ceived that  when  he  returned  home  he  might  be 
induced  to  enter  into  political  life,  to  which  his 
having  travelled  would  be  an  advantage;  and  he 
wished  to  know  the  world  by  sight,  and  to  judge  of 
men  by  experience. 

When  his  satire  was  ready  for  the  press,  he  car- 
ried it  with  him  to  London.  He  was  then  just  come 
of  age,  or  about  to  be  so ;  and  one  of  his  objects  in 
this  visit  to  the  metropolis  was,  to  take  I-is  seat  in 
the  House  of  Lords  before  going  abroad ;  but,  in 
advancing  to  this  proud  distinction,  so  soothing  to 


LORD  BYRON. 


6^ 


Icar- 
lome 
ts  in 
It  in 
.,  in 
Igto 


the  self-importance  of  youth,  he  was  destined  to 
suffer  a  mortification  which  probably  wounded  him 
as  deeply  as  the  sarcasms  of  the  Edinburg^h  Re- 
view. Before  the  meeting"  of  Parliament,  he  wrote 
to  his  relation  and  guardian,  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  to 
remind  him  that  he  should  be  of  age  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Session,  in  the  natural  hope  that 
his  Lordship  would  make  an  offer  to  introduce  him 
to  the  House :  but  he  was  disappointed.  He  only 
received  a  formal  reply,  acquainting  him  with  the 
technical  mode  of  proceeding,  and  the  etiquette  to 
be  observed  on  such  occasions.  It  is  therefor  not 
wonderful  that  he  should  have  lesented  such  treat- 
ment ;  and  he  avenged  it  by  those  lines  in  his  satire, 
for  which  he  afterward  expressed  his  regret  in  the 
third  canto  of  Childe  Harold. 

Deserted  by  his  guardian  at  a  crisis  so  interest- 
ing, he  was  prevented  for  some  time  from  taking 
his  seat  in  Parliament ;  being  obliged  to  procure  affi- 
davits in  proof  of  his  grandfather's  marriage  with 
Miss  Trevannion,  which  having  taken  place  in  a 
private  chapel  at  Carhais,  no  regular  certificate 
of  the  ceremony  could  be  produced.  At  length,  all 
the  necessary  evidence  naving  been  obtained,  on 
the  13th  of  March,  1809,  he  presented  himself  in  the 
House  of  Lords  alone — a  proceeding  consonant  to 
his  character,  for  he  was  not  so  friendless  nor  un- 
known, but  that  he  might  have  procured  some  peer 
to  have  gone  with  him.  It,  however,  served  to 
make  his  introduction  remarkable. 

On  entering  the  House,  he  is  described  to  have 
appeared  abashed  and  pale  :  he  passed  the  woolsack 
without  looking  round,  and  advanced  to  the  table 
where  the  proper  officer  was  attending  to  adminis- 
ter the  oaths.  When  he  had  gone  through  them, 
the  chancellor  quitted  his  seat,  and  went  towards 
him  with  a  smile,  putting  out  his  hand  in  a  friendly 
manner  to  welcome  him,  but  he  made  a  stiff  bow, 
and  only  touched  with  the  tip  of  liis  fingers  the 


l\ 


'IMli!   i'l 


64 


THE  LIFE  OF 


hi,;; 


•  ,1 


1  !    .    1  ■ 

i,  ■:ir 


illr 


M- 


'If, 


chancellor's  hand,  who  immediately  returned  to  his 
seat.  Such  is  the  account  given  of  this  important 
incident  by  Mr.  Dallas,  who  went  with  him  to  the 
bar ;  but  a  characteristic  circumstance  is  wanting. 
When  Lord  Eldon  advanced  with  the  cordiality  de- 
scribed, he  expressed  with  becoming  courtesy  his 
regret  that  the  rules  of  the  House  had  obliged  him 
to  call  for  the  evidence  of  his  grandfather's  mar- 
riage.— "  Your  Lordship  has  done  your  duty,  and  no 
more,"  was  the  cold  reply,  in  the  words  of  Tom 
Thumb,  and  which  probably  was  the  cause  of  the 
marked  manner  of  the  chancellor's  cool  return  to 
his  seat. 

The  satire  was  published  anonymously,  and  im- 
mediately attracted  attention;  the  sale  was  rapid, 
and  a  new  edition  being  called  for,  Byron  revised  it. 
The  preparations  for  his  travels  being  completed, 
he  then  embarked  in  July  of  the  same  year,  with 
Mr.  Hobhouse,  for  Lisbon,  and  thence  proceeded  by 
the  southern  provinces  of  Spain  to  Gibraltar. 

In  the  account  of  his  adventures  during  this  jour- 
ney, he  seems  to  have  felt,  to  an  exaggerated  de- 
gree, the  hazards  to  which  he  was  exposed.  But 
many  of  his  descriptions  are  given  with  a  bright 
pen.  That  of  Lisbon  has  always  been  admired  for 
its  justness,  and  the  mixture  of  force  and  familiarity. 

'  What  beauties  doth  Lisboa's  port  unfbid ! 
Her  image  floating  on  that  noble  tide, 
Which  poets  vainly  pave  with  sands  of  gold, 
But  now  whereon  a  thousand  keels  did  ride,  f.' 

or  mighty  strength  since  Albion  was  allied, 
And  to  the  Lusians  diu  her  aid  afford. 
A  nation  swoln  with  ignorance  and  pride. 
Who  lick,  yet  loathe,  the  hand  that  waves  the  sword 
To  save  them  fVom  the  wrath  of  Gaul's  "nsparing  lord. 

But  whoso  entereth  within  this  town, 
That  sheening  far  celestial  seems  to  be. 
Disconsolate  will  wander  up  and  down, 
Mid  many  things  unsightly  strange  to  see,    '' 
For  hut  and  palace  show  Uke  fllthily ; 
The  dingy  denizens  are  rear'd  in  dirt; 
No  personage  of  high  or  mean  degree 
Doth  care  Ibr  cleanness  of  surtout  and  ihirt, 
Though  shent  with  Egypt's  plague,  urikenpt,  unwaali'd,  unhurt. 


■SJa>« 


LORD   BtRON. 


Qf 


Considering  the  interest  which  he  afterward  took 
in  the  affairs  of  Greece,  it  is  remarkable  that  he 
should  have  passed  through  Spain,  at  the  period  he 
has  described,  without  feeling  any  sympathy  with 
the  spirit  which  then  animated  that  nation.  Intent, 
however,  on  his  travels,  pressing  onward  to  an  un- 
known goal,  he  paused  not  to  inquire  as  to  the  earnest- 
ness of  the  patriotic  zeal  of  the  Spaniards,  nor  once 
dreamed,  even  for  adventure,  of  taking  a  part  in 
their  heroic  cause. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


But 

ght 
for 


ihurt. 


,  first  Acquaintance  with  Byron— Embark  together— -The  Voyage. 

It  was  at  Gibraltar  that  I  first  fell  in  with  Lord 
Byron.  I  had  arrived  there  in  the  packet  from 
England,  in  indifferent  health,  on  my  way  to  Sicily. 
I  had  then  no  intention  of  travelling.  I  only  went 
a  trip,  intending  to  return  home  after  spending  a  few 
weeks  in  Malta,  Sicily,  and  Sardinia ;  having,  before 
my  departure,  entered  into  the  society  of  Lincohi^s- 
Inii,  with  the  design  of  studying  the  law. 

At  this  time,  my  friend,  the  late  Colonel  Wright, 
of  the  artillery,  was  secretary  to  the  governor ;  and 
during  the  short  stay  of  the  packet  at  the  rock,  he 
invited  me  to  the  hospitalities  of  his  house,  and 
among  other  civilities  gave  me  admission  to  the  gar- 
rison library* 

The  day,  I  well  remember,  was  exceedingly  sultry. 
The  air  was  sickly;  and  if  the  wind  was  not  a  si- 
rocco, it  was  a  withering  levanter— oppressive  to  the 
functions  of  life,  and  to  an  invalid  denying  all  exer- 
cise. Instead  of  rambling  over  the  fortifications,  I 
was,  in  consequence,  constrained  to  spend  tfre  hottest 

F8 


i  :f  :%f 


1.1  ■ 


a.  T  : 


66 


THE  LIFE   OF 


!       1 


part  of  the  day  in  the  library;  and,  while  sitting 
there,  a  young  man  came  lu  and  seated  himself  op- 
po»?itc  to  ui«  rit  the  table  v^here  I  was  reading. 
Something  in  his  appearance  attracted  my  atten- 
tion. His  dress  indicated  a  Londoner  of  some 
fashion,  partly  by  its  neatn'^ss  and  simplicity,  with 
jvist  so  much  of  a  peculiarity  of  style  as  served  to 
show,  that  although  he  Vje'oiiged  to  the  order  of 
metropolitan  beaux,  he  ^  is  not  altogether  a  com- 
mon one. 

I  thought  his  face  not  unknown  to  me ;  I  began  to 
conjecture  where  I  could  have  seen  him ;  and,  after 
an  unobserved  scrutiny,  to  speculate  both  as  to  his 
character  and  vocation.  His  physiognomy  was  pre- 
possessing and  intelligent,  but  ever  and  anon  his 
brows  lowered  «nd  gathered;  a  liabitj  as  I  then 
thought,  with  a  degree  of  affectation  in  it,  probably 
first  assumed  for  picturesque  effect  and  energetic 
expression ;  but  which  I  afterward  discovered  was 
undoubtedly  the  occasional  scowl  of  some  unplea- 
sant reminiscence :  it  was  certainly  disagreeable — 
forbidding — ^but  still  the  general  cast  of  his  features 
was  impressed  with  elegance  and  character. 

At  dinner,  a  large  party  assembled  at  Colonel 
Wright's ;  among  others  the  Countess  of  Westmore- 
land, with  Tom  Sheridan  and  his  beautiful  wife; 
and  it  happened  that  Sheridan,  in  relating  the  local 
news  of  the  morning,  mentioned  that  Lord  Byron 
and  Mr.  Hobhouse  had  come  in  from  Spain,  and 
%vere  to  proceed  up  the  Mediterranean  in  the  packet. 
He  was  not  acquainted  with  either. 

Hobhouse  had,  some  short  time  before  I  left  Lon- 
don, published  certain  translations  and  poems  rather 
respectable  in  their  way,  and  I  had  seen  the  work, 
so  that  his  name  was  not  altogether  strange  to  me. 
Byron's  was  familiar — the  Edinburgh  Review  had 
made  it  so,  and  still  more  the  satire  of  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers,  but  I  v/as  not  conscious  of 
having  seen  the  persons  of  either. 


mAmU 


•,V;;.»V4,.v  vv,-IV.v«-W\V*,.v-*."»»*v-v- V . 


LORD    BYRON. 


67 


On  the  following  evening  I  embarked  early,  and 
soon  after  the  two  travellers  came  on  board ;  in  one 
of  whom  I  recognised  the  visiter  to  the  library,  and 
he  proved  to  be  Lord  Byron.  In  the  little  bustle 
and  process  of  embarking  their  luggage,  his  Lordship 
affected,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  more  aristocracy  than 
befitted  his  years,  or  the  occasion ;  and  I  then  thought 
of  his  singular  scowl,  and  suspected  him  of  pride 
and  irascibility.  The  impression  that  evening  was 
not  agreeable,  but  it  was  interesting ;  and  that  fore- 
head mark,  the  frown,  was  calculated  to  awaken 
curiosity,  and  beget  conjectures. 

Hobhouse,  with  more  of  the  commoner,  made  him- 
self one  of  the  passengers  at  once ;  but  Byron  held 
himself  aloof,  and  sat  on  the  rail,  leaning  on  the 
mizzen  shrouds,  inhaling,  as  it  were,  poetical  sym- 
pathy, from  the  gloomy  rock,  then  dark  and  stern  in 
the  twilight.  There  was  in  all  about  him  that  eve- 
ning much  waywardness;  he  spoke  petulantly  to 
Fletcher,  his  valet;  and  was  evidently  ill  at  ease 
with  himself,  and  fretful  towards  others.  I  thought 
he  would  turn  out  an  unsatisfactory  shipmate ;  yet 
there  was  something  redeeming  in  the  tones  of  his 
voice,  when,  some  time  after  he  had  indulged  his 
sullen  meditation,  he  again  addressed  Fletcher ;  so 
that,  instead  of  finding  him  ill-natured,  I  was  soon 
convinced  he  was  only  capricious. 
•  Our  passage  to  Sardinia  was  tardy,  owing  to 
calms ;  but,  in  other  respects,  pleasant.  About  the 
third  day  Byron  relented  from  his  rapt  mood,  as  if 
he  felt  it  was  out  of  place,  and  became  playful,  and 
disposed  to  contribute  his  fair  proportion  to  the  ge  - 
neral  endeavour  to  wile  away  the  tediousness  of  the 
dull  voyage.  Among  other  expedients  for  that  pur- 
pose, we  had  recourse  to  shooting  at  bottles.  Byron, 
I  think,  supplied  the  pistols,  and  was  the  best  shot, 
but  not  very  pre-eminently  so.  In  the  calms,  the 
jolly-boat  was  several  times  lowered ;  and,  on  one 
of  those  occasions,  his  Lordship,  with  the  captain. 


I 


•  !    i 


;!  I 


\V 


es 


THE   LIFE   OF 


caught  a  turtle — I  rather  think  two — we  likewise 
hooked  a  shark,  part  of  which  was  dressed  for 
breakfast,  and  tasted,  without  relish ;  your  shark  is 
but  a  cannibal  dainty. 

As  we  approached  the  gulf,  or  bay,  of  Cagliari,  in 
Sardinia,  a  strong  north  wind  came  from  the  shore, 
and  we  had  a  whole  disagreeable  day  of  tacking,  but 
next  morning,  it  was  Sunday,  we  found  ourselves 
at  anchor  near  the  mole,  where  we  landed.  Byron, 
with  the  captain,  rode  out  some  distance  into  the 
country,  while  I  walked  with  Mr.  Hobhouse  about 
the  town :  we  left  our  cards  for  the  consul,  and  Mr« 
Hill,  the  ambassador,  who  invited  us  to  dinner.  In 
the  evening  we  landed  again,  to  avail  ourselves  of 
the  invitation ;  and,  on  this  occasion,  Byron  and  his 
Pylades  dressed  themselves  as  aids-de-camp — a  cir- 
cumstance which,  at  the  time,  did  not  tend  to  im- 
prove my  estimation  of  the  solidity  of  the  character 
of  either.  But  such  is  tlie  force  of  habit :  it  appeared 
a  less  exceptionable  affectation  in  the  young  peer 
than  in  the  commoner. 

Had  we  parted  at  Cagliari,  it  is  probable  that  I 
should  have  retained  a  much  more  favourable  recol- 
lection of  Mr.  Mobhouse  than  of  Lord  Byron ;  for  he 
was  a  cheerful  companion,  full  of  odd  and  droll  sto- 
ries, which  he  told  extremely  well;  he  was  also 
good-humoured  and  intelligent — altogether  an  advan- 
tageous specimen  of  a  weU-educated  English  gentle- 
man. Moreover,  I  was  at  the  time  afflicted  with  a 
nervous  dejection,  which  the  occasional  exhilaration 
produced  by  his  anecdotes  and  college  tales  often 
materially  dissipated,  though,  for  the  most  part,  they 
were  more  after  the  manner  and  matter  of  Swift  than 
of  Addison. 

Byron  was,  during  the  passage,  in  delicate  health, 
and  upon  an  abstemious  regimen.  He  rarely  tasted 
wine,  nor  more  than  half  a  glass,  mingled  with  water, 
when  he  did.  He  ate  little;  no  animal  food,  but  only 
bread  and  vegetables.    He  reminded  me  of  the  gowl 


by 

is 

ca 


LORD   BYRON. 


69 


%>. 


that  picked  rice  with  a  needle ;  for  it  was  manifest, 
that  he  had  not  acquired  his  knowledge  of  the  world 
by  always  dining  so  sparely.  If  my  remembrance 
is  not  treacherous,  he  only  spent  one  evening  in  the 
cabin  with  us — the  evening  before  we  came  to  an- 
choi  at  Cagliari ;  for,  when  the  lights  were  placed, 
he  n:vAe  himself  a  man  forbid,  took  his  station  on 
the  railing  between  the  pegs  on  which  the  sheets  are 
belayed  and  the  shrouds,  and  there,  for  hours,  sat  in 
silence,  enamoured,  it  may  be,  of  the  moon.  All 
these  peculiarities,  with  his  caprices,  and  something 
inexplicable  in  the  cast  of  his  metaphysics,  while 
they  serve  to  awaken  interest,  contributed  little  to 
conciliate  esteem.  He  was  often  strangely  rapt — 
it  may  have  been  from  his  genius ;  and,  had  its 
grandeur  and  darkness  been  then  divulged,  sus- 
ceptible of  explanation ;  but,  at  the  time,  it  threw,  as 
it  were,  around  him  the  sackcloth  of  penitence. 
Sitting  amid  the  shrouds  and  rattlings,  in  the  tran- 
quillity of  the  moonlight,  churming  an  inarticulate 
melody,  he  seemed  almost  apparitional,  suggesting 
dim  reminiscences  of  him  who  shot  the  albatros. 
He  was  as  a  mystery  in  a  winding-sheet,  crowned 
with  a  halo. 

The  influence  of  the  incomprehensible  phantasma 
which  hovered  about  Lord  Byron  has  been  more  or 
less  felt  by  all  who  ever  approached  him.  That  he 
sometimes  came  out  of  the  cloud,  and  was  familiar 
and  earthly,  is  true ;  but  his  dwelling  was  amid  the 
murk  and  the  mist,  and  the  home  of  his  spirit  in  the 
abysm  of  the  storm,  and  the  hiding-places  of  guilt. 
He  was,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  scarcely 
two-and-twenty,  and  could  claim  no  higher  praise 
than  having  written  a  clever  worldly-minded  satire ; 
and  yet  it  was  impossible,  even  then,  to  reflect  on 
the  bias  of  his  mind,  as  it  was  revealed  by  the  casual- 
ties of  conversation,  without  experiencing  a  pre- 
sentiment, that  he  was  destined  to  execute  some  sin- 
gular and  ominous  pmpose.  The  description  he  has 
given  of  Manfred  in  his  youth,  was  of  himself. 


70 


THE   LIFE   OF 


i';;ii 


My  spirit  walk'd<not  with  the  souls  of  men, 
Nor  loo1('d  upon  the  earth  with  human  eyes ; 
The  thirst  of  their  ambition  was  not  mine; 
Ttie  aim  of  their  existence  was  not  mine. 
My  joys,  my  griefs,  my  passions,  and  my  powers, 
Made  me  a  stranger.    Though  I  wore  the  form, 
I  had  no  sympathy  with  breathing  flesh. 
My  joy  was  in  the  wilderness— to  breathe 
The  difficult  air  of  the  iced  mountain's  top, 
Where  the  birds  dare  not  build,  nor  insect's  wing 
Flit  o'er  the  berbless  granite ;  or  to  plunge 
Into  the  torreii    ^md  to  roll  along 
On  the  swift  whirl  of  the  new-breaking  wave 
Of  river,  stream,  or  ocean,  in  their  flow — 
In  these  my  early  strength  exulted ;  or 
To  follow  through  the  night  the  moving  moon, 
The  stars,  and  their  developement ;  or  catch 
The  dazzling  lightnings  till  my  eyes  grew  dim ; 
Or  to  look  listening  on  the  scatter'd  leaves. 
While  autumn  winds  were  at  their  evening  song 
These  were  my  pastimes— and  to  be  alone. 
For  if  the  beings,  of  whom  I  was  one — 
Hating  to  be  so — cross'd  me  in  my  path, 
I  felt  myself  degraded  back  to  them, 
And  was  all  clay  again. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


P:'l   ill"" 


Dinner  at  the  Ambassador's— Opera— Disaster  of  Byron  at  Malta— Mrs. 

Spencer  Smith. 

I  SHALL  always  remember  Cagliari  with  particular 
pleasure;  for  it  so  happened  that  I  formed  there 
three  of  the  most  agreeable  acquaintances  of  my  life, 
and  one  of  them  was  with  Lord  Byron ;  for  although 
we  had  been  eight  days  together,  I  yet  could  not 
previously  have  accounted  myself  acquainted  with 
his  Lordship. 

After  dinner,  we  all  went  to  the  theatre,  which  was 
that  evening,  on  account  of  some  court  festival,  bril- 
liantly illuminated.  The  royal  family  were  pre- 
sent, and  the  opera  was  performed  with  more  taste 
and  execution  than  I  had  expected  to  meet  with  in 


i  l!li,;;!    , 


LORD   BTRON. 


w 


8d  remote  a  place,  and  under  the  restrictions  which 
rendered  the  intercourse  with  the  continent  then  so 
difficult.  Among  other  remarkable  characters  pointed 
out  to  us,  was  a  nobleman  in  the  pit,  actually  under 
the  ban  of  outlawry  for  murder.  I  have  often  won- 
dered if  the  incident  had  any  effect  on  the  creation 
of  Lara ;  for  we  know  not  in  what  small  germs  the 
conceptions  of  genius  originate. 

But  the  most  important  occurrence  of  that  evening 
arose  from  a  delicate  observance  of  etiquette  on  the 
part  of  the  ambassador.  After  carrying  us  to  his 
box,  which  was  close  to  that  of  the  royal  family, 
in  order  that  we  might  see  the  members  of  it  pro- 
perly, he  retired  with  Lord  Byron  to  another  box,  an 
inflexion  of  manners  to  propriety  in  the  best  possible 
taste — for  the  ambassador  was  doubtless  aware  that 
his  Lordship's  rank  would  be  known  to  the  audience, 
and  I  conceive  that^this  little  arrangement  was 
adopted  to  make  his  psrson  also  known,  by  showing 
him  with  distinction  apart  from  the  other  strangers. 

When  the  performance  was  over,  Mr.  Hill  came 
down  with  Lord  Byron  to  the  gate  of  the  upper  town, 
whsre  his  Lordship,  as  we  were  taking  leave,  thanked 
him  with  more  elocution  than  was  precisely  requi- 
site. The  style  and  formality  of  the  speech  amused 
Mr.  Hobhouse,  as  well  as  others ;  and,  when  the  mi- 
nister retired,  he  began  to  rally  his  Lordship  on  the 
subject.  But  Byron  really  fancied  that  he  had  ac- 
quitted himself  with  grace  and  dignity,  and  took  the 
jocularity  of  his  friend  amiss — a  little  banter  ensued 
— the  poet  became  petulant,  and  Mr.  Hobhouse 
walked  on ;  while  Byron,  on  account  of  his  lame- 
ness, and  the  roughness  of  the  pavement,  took  hold 
of  my  arm,  appealing  to  me,  if  he  could  have  said 
less,  after  the  kind  and  hospitable  treatment  we  had 
all  received.  Of  course,  though  I  thought  pretty 
much  as  Mr.  Hobhouse  did,  I  could  not  do  otherwise 
than  civilly  assent,  especially  as  his  Lordship's  com- 
fort, at  the  moment,  seemed  in  some  degree  de* 


ii  M'  ti'^ 


72 


THE   LIFE   OF 


I 
i; 


■'iit 


pendent  on  being  confirmed  in  the  good  opinion  he 
was  desirous  to  entertain  of  his  own  courtesy.  From 
that  night  I  evidently  rose  in  his  good  graces ;  and, 
as  he  was  always  most  agreeable  and  interesting 
when  familiar,  it  was  worth  my  while  to  advance, 
but  by  cautious  circumvallations,  into  his  intimacy ; 
for  his  uncertain  temper  made  his  favour  precarious. 

The  next  morning,  either  owing  to  the  relaxation 
of  his  abstinence,  which  he  could  not  probably  well 
avoid  amid  the  good  things  of  the  ambassadorial 
table ;  or,  what  was,  perhaps,  less  questionable,  some 
regret  for  his  petulance  towards  his  friend,  he  was 
indisposed,  and  did  not  make  his  appearance  till  late 
in  the  evening.  I  rather  suspect,  though  there  was 
no  evidence  of  the  fact,  that  Hobhouse  received  any 
concession  which  he  may  have  made  with  indul- 
gence ;  for  he  remarked  to  me,  in  a  tone  that  im- 
plied both  forbearance  and  generosity  of  regard, 
that  it  was  necessary  to  hunlour  him  like  a  child. 
But,  in  whatever  manner  the  reconciliation  was  ac- 
complished, the  passengers  partook  of  the  blessings 
of  the  peace.  Byron,  during  the  following  day,  as  we 
were  sailing  along  the  picturesque  shores  of  Sicily, 
was  in  the  highest  spirits;  overflowing  with  glee, 
and  sparkling  with  quaint  sentences.  The  cham- 
paign was  uncorked  and  in  the  finest  condition. 

Having  landed  the  mail  at  Girgenti,  we  stretched 
over  to  Malta,  where  we  arrived  about  noQji  next 
day — all  the  passengers,  except  Orestes  and  Pylades, 
being  eager  to  land,  went  on  shore  with  the  captain. 
They  remained  behind  for  a  reason — ^which  an  acci- 
dental expression  of  Bjnron  let  out — much  to  my 
secret  amusement ;  for  I  was  aware  they  would  be 
disappointed,  and  the  anticipation  was  relishing. 
They  expected — at  least  he  did— a  salute  from  the 
batteries,  and  sent  ashore  notice  to  Sir  Alexander 
Ball,  the  governor,  of  his  arrival ;  but  the  guns  were 
sulky,  and  evinced  no  respect  of  persons;  so  that 
la  e  in  the  afternoon,  about  the  heel  of  the  evemng^ 


LORD   BYRON. 


n 


the  two  magnates  were  obliged  to  come  on  shore, 
and  slip  into  the  t'ity  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

At  this  time  Malta  was  in  great  prosperity.  Her 
commerce  was  flourishing ;  and  the  goodly  clusters 
of  its  profits  hung  ripe  and  ricli  at  every  door.  The 
merchants  were  truly  hospituble,  and  few  more  so 
than  Mr.  Chabot.  As  I  had  letters  to  him,  he  invited 
me  to  dinner,  along  with  several  other  f fiends  pre- 
viously engaged.  In  the  cool  of  the  evening,  as  we 
were  sitting  at  our  wine,  Lord  Byron  and  Mr.  Hob- 
house  were  announced.  His  Lordship  was  in  better 
spirits  than  I  had  ever  seen  him.  His  appearance 
showed,  as  he  entered  the  room,  that  they  had  met 
with  some  adventure,  and  he  chuckled  with  an  in- 
ward sense  of  enjoyment,  no'  altogether  without 
spleen — a  kind  of  malicious  satisfaction — os  his 
companion  recounted  with  all  becoming  gravity  their 
woes  and  sufferings,  as  an  apology  for  begging  a  bed 
and  morsel  for  the  night.  God  forgive  me!  but  1 
partook  of  Byron's  levity  at  the  idea  of  personages 
so  consequential  wandering  destitute  in  the  streets, 
seeking  for  lodgings,  as  it  were,  from  door  to  door, 
and  rejected  at  all. 

Next  day,  however,  they  were  accommodated  by 
the  Governor  with  an  agreeable  house  in  the  upper 
part  of  Valetta ;  and  his  Lordship,  as  soon  as  they 
were  domiciled,  began  to  take  lessons  in  Arabic  from 
a  monk — I  believe  one  of  the  librarians  of  the  pub- 
lic library.  His  whole  time  was  not,  however,  de- 
voted to  study ;  for  he  formed  an  acquaintance  with 
Mrs.  Spencer  Smith,  the  lady  of  the  gentleman  of 
that  name,  who  had  been  our  resident  minister  at 
Constantinople :  he  affected  a  passion  for  her;  but  it 
was  only  Platonic.  She,  however,  beguiled  him  of  his 
valuable  yellow  diamond-ring.  She  is  the  Florence  of 
Childe  Harold,  and  merited  the  poetical  embalmment, 
or  rather  the  amber  immortalization,  she  possesses 
there — ^being  herself  a  heroine.  There  was  no  ex- 
aggeration in  saying  that  many  incidents  of  her  life 

G 


i  1 


4f 


M 


THE    LIFE    OF 


'm 


-•Ji.;, 


would  appear  improbable  in  fiction.  Her  adventures 
with  the  Marquis  de  Salvo  form  one  of  the  prettiest 
romances  in  the  Italian  language ;  every  thing  in  her 
destiny  was  touched  with  adventure :  nor  was  it  the 
least  of  her  claims  to  sympathy  that  she  had  incurred 
the  special  enmity  of  Napoleon. 

After  remaining  about  three  weeks  at  Malta,  Byron 
embarked  with  his  friend  in  a  brig  of  war,  appointed 
to  convoy  a  fleet  of  small  merchantmen  to  Prevesa. 
I  had,  about  a  fortnight  before,  passed  0Vv3r  with  the 
packet  on  lier  return  from  Messina  to  Girgenti,  and 
did  not  fall  in  with  them  again  till  tlie  following 
spring,  when  we  met  at  Athens.  In  the  mean  time, 
besides  his  Platonic  dalliance  with  Mrs.  Spencer 
Smith,  Byron  had  involved  himself  in  a  quarrel  with 
an  officer ;  but  it  was  satisfactorily  settled. 

His  residence  at  Malta  did  not  greatly  interest 
him.  The  story  of  its  chivalrous  masters  made  no 
impression  on  his  imagination;  none  that  appears 
in  his  works ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  probable  that  the 
remembrance  of  the  place  itself  occupied  a  deep 
niche  in  his  bosom :  for  I  have  remarked,  that  he 
had  a  voluntary  power  of  forgetfulness,  which,  on 
more  than  one  occasion,  struck  me  as  singular :  and 
I  am  led  in  consequence  to  think,  that  something  un- 
pleasant, connected  with  this  quarrel,  may  have  been 
the  cause  of  his  suppression  of  all  direct  allusion  to 
the  island.  It  was  impossible  that  his  imagination 
could  avoid  the  impulses  of  the  spirit  which  haunts 
the  walls  and  ramparts  of  Malta ;  and  the  silence  of 
his  muse  on  a  topic  so  rich  in  romance,  and  so  well 
calculated  to  awaken  associations  concerning  the 
knights,  in  unison  with  the  ruminations  of  Childe 
Harold,  persuades  me  that  there  must  have  been 
some  specific  cause  for  the  omission.  If  it  were 
nothing  in  the  duel,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say,  not- 
withstanding the  seeming  improbability  of  the  no- 
tion, that  it  was  owing  to  some  curious  modification 
tff  vindictive  spite.     It  might  not  be  that  l^aLta 


m 


LORD   BYRON. 


75 


should  receive  no  celebrity  from  his  pen ;  but  as- 
suredly he  liad  met  with  somethinj?  there  which 
made  liim  resolute  to  forjret  the  place.  The  ques- 
tion as  to  what  it  was,  he  never  answered:  the  re- 
sult would  throw  light  into  the  labyrinths  of  his 
character. 


CHAPTER  X. 


I 


Sa9s  from  Malta  to  Prevesa— hands  at  Patras  Sails  again-~Pa$tt* 

Ithaca— Arrival  at  Prevesa. 

It  was  on  the  19th  of  September,  1809,  that  Byron 
sailed  in  the  Spider  brig  from  Malta  for  Prevesa,  and 
on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day  after,  he  first  saw 
the  mountains  of  Greece;  next  day  he  landed  at 
Patras,  and  walked  for  some  time  among  the  currant- 
grounds  between  the  town  and  the  shore.  Around 
him  lay  one  of  the  noblest  landscapes  in  the  world, 
and  afar  in  the  north-east  rose  the  purple  summits 
of  the  Grecian  mountains. 

Having  re-embarked,  the  Spider  proceeded  towards 
her  destination ;  the  poet  not  receiving  much  aug- 
mentation to  his  ideas  of  the  grandeur  of  the  an- 
cients, from  the  magnitude  of  their  realms  and  states. 
Ithaca,  which  he  doubtless  regarded  with  wonder 
and  disappointment,  as  he  passed  its  cliffy  shores, 
was  then  in  possession  of  the  French.  In  the  course 
of  a  month  after,  the  kingdom  of  Ulysses  surren- 
dered to  a  British  serjeant  and  seven  men. 
- . , .    .  .  -/ 

Childe  Harold  saird,  and  pass*d  the  barren  spot, 
Where  Had  Penelope  o*erlook*d  the  wave ;  • 

And  onward  view'd  the  mount,  not  yet  forgot.  ;  ; 

The  lover's  ref\ige,  and  the  Lesbian's  grave. 


But  when  he  saw  the  evening  star  above 
Leucadia's  far-projecting  rock  of  wo, 


h:!^ 


m 

it 


76 


THE   LIFE    OF 


And  haird  the  last  resort  of  (Vultless  lore, 
He  felt,  or  deem'd  he  felt,  no  common  glow ; 
And  as  the  stntely  vessel  glided  slow 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  that  ancient  mount, 
He  watch'd  the  billows'  melancholy  flow, 
And,  sunk  albeit  in  thought  as  he  was  wont- 
More  placid  seem'd  his  eye,  and  smooth  his  pallid  fVont. 

At  seven  in  the  evening,  of  the  same  day  on  which 
he  passed  Leucadia,  the  vessel  came  to  anchor  oflf 
Prevesa.  The  day  was  wet  and  gloomy,  and  the 
appearance  of  the  town  was  little  calculated  to  be- 
speak cheerfulness.  But  the  novelty  in  the  costume 
and  appearance  of  the  inhabitants  and  their  dwell- 
ings, produced  an  immediate  effect  on  the  imagina- 
tion of  Byron,  and  we  can  trace  the  vivid  impression 
animating  and  adorning  his  descriptions. 

The  wild  Albanian,  Idrtled  to  his  knee. 
With  shawl-girt  head  and  ornamented  gun. 
And  gold-embroider'd  garments,  fair  to  see ; 
The  crimson-scarfed  men  of  Macedou ; 
The  Delhi  with  his  cap  of  terror  on. 
And  crooked  glaive ;  the  lively,  supple  Greek, 
And  swarthy  Nubia's  mutilated  son ; 
The  bearded  Turk,  that  rarely  deigns  to  speak, 
Master  of  all  around,  too  potent  to  be  meek. 

Having  partaken  of  a  consecutive  dinner,  dish 
after  dish,  with  the  brother  of  the  English  consul, 
the  travellers  proceeded  to  visit  the  governor  of  the 
town :  he  resided  within  the  enclosure  of  a  fort,  and 
they  were  conducted  towards  him  by  a  long  gallery, 
open  on  one  side,  and  through  several  large  unfur- 
nished rooms.  In  the  last  of  this  series,  the  go- 
vernor received  them  with  the  wonted  solemn  civi- 
lity of  the  Turks,  and  entertained  them  with  pipes 
and  coffee.  Neither  his  appearance,  nor  the  style 
of  the  entertainment,  were  distinguished  by  any  dis- 
play of  Ottoman  grandeur ;  he  was  seated  on  a  sofa 
in  the  midst  of  a  group  of  shabby  Albanian  guards, 
who  had  but  little  reverence  for  the  greatness  of  the 
guests,  as  they  sat  down  beside  them,  and  stared  and 
laughed  at  their  conversation  with  the  governor* 


LORD   BYRON.  77 

)But  if  the  circumstances  and  aspect  of  the  place 
derived  no  importance  from  visible  splendour,  every 
object  around  was  enriched  with  stories  and  classical 
recollections.  The  battle  of  Actium  was  fought 
within  the  gulf. 

Ambracia's  gulf  behold,  where  once  was  lost 
A  world  for  woman — lovely,  harnnless  thing ! 
In  yonder  rippling  bay,  their  naval  host 
Did  nnany  a  Roman  chief  and  Asian  kinj? 
To  doubtful  conflict,  certain  slaughter  bring. 
Look  where  the  second  Cfesar's  trophies  rose ' 
Now.  like  the  lands  that  rear'd  them,  withering ; 
Imperial  monarchs  doubling  human  woes  I 
God !  was  thy  globe  ordain'd  for  such  to  win  and  lose  ? 

Having  inspected  the  ruins  of  Nicopolis,  which 
are  more  remarkable  for  their  desultory  extent  and 
scattered  remnants,  than  for  any  remains  of  magni- 
ficence or  of  beauty, 

Childe  Harold  pass'd  o'er  many  a  mount  sublime, 
Through  lands  scarce  noticed  in  historic  tales 
Yet  in  famed  Attica  such  lovely  dales 
Are  rarely  seen ;  nor  can  fair  Tempe  boast 
A  charm  they  know  not ;  loved  Parnassus  fails, 
Though  classic  ground  and  consecrated  most, 
To  match  some  si)ots  that  lurk  within  this  lowering  coast.' 

In  this  journey  he  was  still  accompanied  by  Mr. 
Hobhouse.  They  had  provided  themselves  with  a 
Greek  to  serve  as  a  dragoman.  With  this  person 
they  soon  became  dissatisfied,  in  consequence  of 
their  general  suspicion  of  Greek  integrity,  and  be- 
cause of  the  necessary  influence  which  such  an  ap- 
pendage acquires  in  the  exercise  of  his  office.  He 
is  the  tongue  and  purse-bearer  of  his  master;  he 
procures  him  lodginor,  food,  horses,  and  all  con- 
veniences ;  must  support  his  dignity  with  the  Turks 
— a  difficult  task  in  those  days  for  a  Greek — and  his 
manifold  trusts  demand  that  he  should  be  not  only 
active  and  ingenious,  but  prompt  and  resolute.  In 
the  qualifications  of  this  essential  servant,  the  tra- 
vellers were  not  fortunate — he  never  lost  an  oppor- 

G2 


tf 


THE   LIFE    OF 


tunity  of  pilfering; — ^he  was,  however,  zealous,  btis- 
tling,  and  talkative,  and  withal  good-humoured ;  and, 
litivinghis  mind  intent  on  one  object — making  money 
— was  never  lazy  nor  drunken,  negligent  nor  unpre- 
pared. 

On  the  1st  of  October  they  embarked,  and  sailed 
up  the  gulf  of  Salona,  where  they  were  shown  into 
an  empty  barrack  for  lodgings.  In  this  habitation 
twelve  Albanian  soldiers  and  an  officer  were  quar- 
tered, who  behaved  towards  them  with  civility.  On 
their  entnuK^e,  the  officer  gave  them  pipes  and  coffee, 
and  after  they  had  dined  in  their  own  apartment,  he 
invited  them  to  spend  the  evening  with  him,  and  they 
condescended  to  partake  of  )iis  hospitality. 

Such  instan(;es  as  these  in  ordinary  biography  would 
be  without  iiUei  est ;  but  when  it  is  considered  how 
firmly  the  impression  of  them  was  retanied  in  the 
mind  of  the  poet,  and  how  intimately  they  entered 
into  the  substance  of  his  reminis(;ences  of  Greece, 
they  acquire  dignity,  and  become  epo(;hal  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  developement  of  his  intellectual  powers, 

"  All  the  Albanians,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "  strut 
very  mucli  when  they  walk,  projecting  theii  chests, 
throwing  ba(;k  their  heads,  and  moving  veiy  slowly 
from  side  to  side.  Kimas  (as  the  officer  was  called) 
had  this  strut  more  than  any  man  perhaps  we  saw 
afterward ;  and  as  the  sight  was  then  quite  new  to 
us,  we  could  not  help  staring  at  the  magisterial  and 
superlatively  dignified  air  of  a  man  with  great  holes 
in  his  elbows,  and  looking  altogether,  as  to  his  gar- 
ment, like  what  we  call  a  bnll-beggar."  Mr.  Hob- 
house  describes  him  as  a  captain,  but  by  the  number 
of  men  under  him,  he  could  have  been  of  no  higher 
rank  than  a  Serjeant. — Captains  are  centurions. 

After  supper,  the  officer  washed  his  hands  with 
soap,  inviting  the  travellers  to  do  the  same,  for  they 
had  eaten  a  little  with  him ;  he  did  not,  however,  givti 
the  soap,  but  put  it  on  the  floor  with  an  air  so  remark- 
jablei  as  to  induce  Mr*  Hobhouse  to  inquire  the  mean- 


LORD   BYRON. 


79 


ing  of  it,  and  he  was  informed  that  there  is  a  super- 
stition in  Turkey  against  giving  soap :  it  is  thought 
it  will  wash  away  love. 

Next  day  it  rained,  and  the  travellers  were  obliged 
to  remain  under  shelter.  The  evening  was  again 
spent  with  the  soldiers,  who  did  tlieir  utmost  to  amuse 
them  with  Greek  and  Albanian  songs  and  freaks  of 
jocularity. 

In  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  October  they  set 
out  for  Arta,  with  ten  horses ;  four  for  themselves 
and  servants,  four  for  their  luggage,  and  two  for  two 
soldiers  whom  they  were  induced  to  take  with  them 
as  guards.  Byron  takes  no  notice  of  his  visit  to 
Arta  in  Childe  Harold;  but  Mr.  Hobhouse  has  given 
a  minute  account  of  the  town.  They  met  there 
with  nothing  remarkable. 

The  remainder  of  the  journey  to  .Toannina,  the 
capital  then  of  the  famous  Ali  Pashviw,  whs  rendered 
unpleasant  by  the  wetness  of  the  weather;  still  it 
was  impossible  to  pass  through  a  country  so  pic- 
turesque in  its  feature,  and  rendered  njmantic  by  the 
traditions  of  robberies  and  conflicts,  without  receiv- 
ing impressions  of  that  kind  of  imagery  wliich  con- 
stitiucs  the  embroidery  on  the  vestment  of  poetry. 

The  first  view  of  Joai  nina  seen  in  the  morniriff 
light,  or  glittering  in  the  setting  sun,  is  lively  and 
alluring.  The  houses,  domes,  and  minarets,  shming 
through  gardens  of  oran.£:e  and  lemon-trees,  and 
groves  of  cypresses ;  the  lake,  spreading  it?  broad 
mirror  at  the  foot  of  the  town,  and  the  mountains 
rising  abrupt  around,  all  combined  to  present  a  land- 
scape new  and  beautiful.  Indeed,  where  may  be  its 
parallel  ?  the  lake  was  the  A(;heru*oian,  Mount  Pindus 
was  in  sight,  and  the  Elysian  fields  of  mythology 
spread  in  the  lovely  plains  over  which  they  passed 
ui  approaching  the  town. 

On  entering  .Toannina,  they  were  appalled  by  a 
spectacle  characteristic  of  the  country.  Opposite  a 
butcher's  shop,  they  beheld  hanging  from  the  boughs 


■i 


80 


THE   LIFE    OF 


of  a  tree  a  man's  arm,  with  part  of  the  side  torn 
from  the  body. — How  long  is  it  since  Temple-bar,  in 
the  very  heart  of  London,  was  adorned  with  the 
sculls  of  the  Scottish  noblemen  who  were  beheaded 
for  their  loyalty  to  the  son  and  representative  of 
their  ancient  kings! 

The  object  of  the  visit  to  Joannina  was  to  see  All 
Pashaw,  in  those  days  the  most  celebrated  vizier  in 
all  the  western  provinces  of  the  Ottoman  empire; 
but  he  was  then  at  Tepellene.  The  luxury  of  rest- 
ing, however,  in  a  capital,  was  not  to  be  resisted, 
and  they  accordingly  suspended  their  journey  until 
they  had  satisfied  their  curiosiiy  with  an  inspection 
of  every  object  whic^h  merited  attention.  Of  Joan- 
nina, it  may  be  said,  they  were  almost  the  discover- 
ers, so  little  was  known  of  it  in  England — I  may  say 
in  Western  Europe — previous  to  their  visit. 

The  palace  and  establislnnent  of  Ali  Pashaw  were 
of  regal  splendour,  combining  with  oriental  pomp 
the  elegance  of  the  Occident,  and  the  travellers  were 
treated  by  the  vizier's  officers  with  all  the  courtesy 
due  to  the  rank  of  Lord  Byron,  and  every  facility 
was  afforded  them  to  prosecute  their  journey.  The 
weather,  however — the  season  being  far  advanced — 
WHS  wet  and  unsettled,  and  they  suffered  more 
fatigue  and  annoyance  than  travellers  for  informa- 
tion or  pleasure  should  have  had  to  encounter. 

The  journey  from  Joannina  to  Zitza  is  among  ihe 
happiest  sketches  in  the  pilgrimage  c    •  nilde  Harold. 


He  pass'd  bleak  Pindus,  Aclierusia's  lake, 
An<l  left  the  primal  city  oCthe  land. 
And  onwards  did  his  farther  journey  take 
To  greet  Albania's  chief,  whose  dread  command 
l8  lawl(;.ss  law  ;  for  with  a  bloody  hand 
He  sways  a  nation,  turbulent  and  bold  : 
Yet  here  and  there  somf  daring  mountain-band 
Disdain  his  power,  and  from  tlieir  rocky  hold 
Hurl  their  defiance  far,  nor  yield  unless  to  gold. 

Monastic  Zitza !  from  thy  shady  brow, 
Tbou  small,  but  favour'd  spot  of  holy  grouncl ! 


V 


LORD  BYRorr. 


81 


Where'er  we  gaze,  above,  around,  below, 
What  rainbow  tints,  what  magic  charms  are  found ; 
Rock,  river,  forest,  mountain,  all  abound ; 
And  bluest  skies  that  harmonize  the  whole. 
Beneath,  the  distant  torrent's  rushing  sound, 
Tells  where  the  volumed  <;ataract  doth  roll 
Between  those  hanging  rocks  that  shock  yet  please  the  soul. 

"  In  the  course  of  this  journey  the  poet  happened  to 
begone  with  his  guides,  when  they  lost  their  way 
duiKg  a  tremendous  thunderstorm,  and  he  has  com- 
memorated the  circumstance  in  the  spirited  stanzas 
beginning — 

Chill  and  mirk  U  the  nightly  blast 


;^     ■'*' 


CHAPTER  XI. 


•".  i 


Halt  at  ZUza—The  River  Acheron— Greek  Wine— A  Greet.  Cluxriot— 
Arrival  at  Tepelletic — The  Viziefs  Palace. 

The  travellers,  on  their  arrival  at  Zitza,  went  to 
the  monastery  to  solicit  accommodation ;  and  after 
some  parley  with  one  of  the  monks,  through  a  small 
grating  in  a  door  plated  with  iron,  on  which  marks 
of  violence  were  visible,  and  which,  before  the 
country  had  been  tranquillized  under  the  vigorous 
dominion  of  Ali  Pashaw,  had  been  frequently  bat- 
tered in  vain  by  the  robbers  who  then  infested  the 
neighbourhood.  The  prior,  a  meek  and  lowly  man, 
entertained  them  in  a  warm  chamber  with  grapes 
and  a  pleasant  white  wine,  not  trodden  out  by  the 
feet,  as  he  informed  them,  but  expressed  by  the 
hand.  To  this  gentle  and  kind  host  Byron  alludes 
in  his  description  of  "  Monastic  Zitza." 

Amid  the  grove  that  crowns  yon  tutted  hill. 
Which,  were  it  not  for  many  a  mountain  nigh 
Rising  in  lofty  ranks,  and  loftier  still. 
Might  well  itself  be  deem'd  of  dignity ; 


^  ■  1 


*■    1 

liii^.'i 

'. '  ^■:  i ' 

r 

!i, 

)     ■ 

i::l! 


IV'.^ 


i.  !'■ 


THE   LIFE    OP 

The  convent'H  white  walls  glisten  fair  on  high : 
Here  dwells  the  caltiyer,  nor  rude  is  he, 
Nor  niggard  of  his  cheer:  the  passer-by 
Is  welcome  still ;  nor  heedless  will  he  flee 
From  hence,  if  he  delight  kind  Nature's  sheen  to  see. 


Having  halted  a  night  at  Zitza,  the  travellers  pro- 
ceeded on  their  journey  next  morning',  by  a  road 
which  led  through  the  vineyards  around  the  villages, 
and  the  view  from  a  barren  hill,  which  they  were 
obliged  to  cross,  is  described  with  some  of  the  most 
forcible  touches  of  the  poet's  pencil. 

Dusky  ^nd  huge,  enlarging  on  the  sight. 
Nature's  volcanic  amphitheatre, 
Chimera's  Alps,  extend  from  left  to  right; 
Beneath,  a  living  valley  seems  to  stir. 
Flocks  play,  trees  wave,  streams  flo\v,  the  mountain  flr 
Nodding  above ;  behold  bkck  Acheron  ! 
Once  consecrated  to  the  sepulchre. 
Pluto  I  if  this  be  hell  I  look  upon, 
Close  shamed  Elysium's  gates ;  my  shade  shall  seek  for  none  ? 

The  Acheron,  which  they  crossed  in  this  route,  is 
now  called  the  Kalamas,  a  considerable  stream,  as 
large  as  the  Avon  at  Bath :  but  towards  the  evening 
they  had  some  cause  to  think  the  Acheron  had  not 
lost  all  its  original  horror ;  for  a  dreadful  thunder- 
storm came  on,  accompanied  with  deluges  of  rain, 
which  more  than  once  nearly  carried  away  their 
luggage  and  horses.  Byron  himself  does  not  notice 
this  incident  in  Childe  Harold,  nor  even  the  adven- 
ture more  terrific  which  he  met  with  alone  in  simi- 
lar circumstances  on  the  ni<Tht  before  their  anival  at 
Zitza,  when  his  guides  lost  th<^ir  way  in  the  defiles 
of  the  mountains — advevit  ires  sufficiently  disagree- 
able in  the  advent,  but  full  of  poesy  in  ihe  rernem- 
brance. 

The  first  halt,  after  leaving  Zitza,  was  at  the  little 
village  of  Mosure,  v/here  they  were  lodged  in  a  mi- 
serable cabin,  the  residence  of  a  poor  priest,  who 
treated  them  with  all  the  kindness  his  humble  means 
afforded.     From  this  place  they  proceeded  next 


1,r 


LORD   BYRON. 


83 


morning  through  a  wild  and  savage  country,  inter 
spersed  with  vineyards,  to  Delvinaki,  where  it  would 
seem  th^'V  first  met  with  genuine  Greek  wine,  that 
is,  wine  mixed  with  resin  and  lime ;  a  more  odious 
drauglit  at  the  first  taste  than  any  drug  the  apothe- 
cary mixes.  Considering  how  much  of  allegory 
entered  into  tht  composition  of  the  Greek  mytho- 
logy, it  IS  probable  that  in  representing  the  infant 
Bacchus  holding  a  pine,  the  ancient  sculptors  in- 
tended an  impersonation  of  the  circumstance  of  resin 
being  employed  to  preserve  new  wine. 

The  travellers  were  now  in  Albania,  the  native 
region  of  Ali  Pashaw,  whom  they  expected  to  find 
at  LJbokavo;  but  on  entering  the  town,  they  were 
informed  that  he  was  farther  up  the  country  at  Te- 
pellene,  or  Tepalen,  his  native  place.  In  their  route 
from  Libokavo  to  Tepalen  they  met  with  no  adven- 
ture, nor  did  they  visit  Argyro-castro,  which  they 
saw  some  nine  or  ten  miles  off, — a  large  city,  sup- 
posed to  contain  about  twenty  thousand  inhabitants, 
chiefly  Turks.  When  they  reached  Cezarades,  a 
distance  of  not  more  than  nine  miles,  which  had 
taken  them  five  hours  to  travel,  they  were  agreeably 
accommodated  for  the  night  in  a  neat  cottage ;  and 
the  All)anian  landlord,  in  whose  demeanour  they 
could  discern  nonf  of  that  cringing,  downcast,  sinis- 
ter look  which  marked  the  degraded  Greek,  received 
them  with  a  hearty  welcome. 

Next  morning  they  resumed  cheir  journey,  and 
halted  one  niglit  more  before  they  reached  Tepel- 
lene,  in  approaching  which  they  met  a  carriage,  not 
inelegantly  constructed  after  the  German  fashion, 
with  a  man  on  the  box  driving  four-in-hand,  and 
two  Albanian  sohliers  standing  on  the  footboard  be- 
hind. They  were  floundering  on  at  a  trot  through 
mud  and  mire,  boldly  regardless  of  danger ;  but  it 
seemed  to  the  English  eyes  of  the  travellers  impos- 
sible that  such  a  vehicle  should  ever  be  able  to  reach 
Libokavo,  to  which  it  was  bound.    In  due  time  they 


mrn^ 


..,•.  <.5.    •.'tit 


84 


THE   LIFE   OF 


i 


crossed  the  river  Laos,  or  Voioutza,  which  was  then 
full,  and  appeared  both  to  Byron  and  his  friend  as 
broad  as  the  Thames  at  Westminster ;  after  crossing 
it  on  a  stone  bridge,  they  came  in  sight  of  Tepel- 
lene,  when 

s 

The  sun  had  sunk  behind  vast  Tomerit, 
And  Laos,  wide  and  flerce,  came  roaring  by ; 
The  shades  or  wonted  night  were  gathering  yet, 
When  down  the  steep  banlis,  winding  warily, 
Childe  Harold  saw,  like  meteors  in  the  sky, 
The  glittering  minarets  of  Tepalen, 
Whose  walls  n'erlook  the  stream ;  and  drawing  nigh. 
He  heard  the  busy  hum  of  warrior-men 
Swelling  thct  breeze  that  sigh'd  along  the  lengthening  glen 

On  their  arrival,  they  proceeded  at  once  to  the 
residence  of  Ali  Pashaw,  an  extensive  rude  pile, 
where  they  witnessed  a  scene,  not  dissimilar  to  that 
which  they  might,  perhaps,  have  beheld  some  hun- 
dred years  ago,  in  the  castle-yard  of  a  great  feudal 
baron.  Soldiers,  with  their  arms  piled  against  the 
wall,  were  assembled  in  different  parts  of  the  court, 
several  horses,  completely  caparisoned,  were  led 
about,  others  were  neighing  under  the  hands  of  the 
grooms ;  and  for  the  feast  of  the  night,  armed  cooks 
were  busy  dressing  kids  and  sheep.  The  scene  is 
described  with  the  poet's  liveliest  pencil. 

Richly  caparison'd,  a  ready  row 
Of  armed  horse,  and  many  a  warlike  store. 
Circled  the  wide  extending  court  below ; 
Above,  strange  groups  adorn'd  the  corridor 
And  ofltimes  through  the  area's  echoing  doof, 
Some  highcapp'd  Tartar  spurr'd  his  steed  away. 
The  Turk,  the  Greek,  the  Albanian,  and  the  Moor, 
Here  mingled  in  their  many-hued  array, 
While  the  deep  war-drum's  sound  announced  the  clone  of  day. 


'  Some  recline  in  groups, 


Scanning  the  motley  scene  tliat  varies  round. 
There  some  grave  Moslem  to  devotion  stoops, 
And  some  that  smoke,  and  some  that  play,  are  found. 
Here  the  Albanian  proudly  treads  the  ground 
Half- whispering,  there  the  Greek  is  heard  to  prate 
Hark  I  from  tfe  mosque  the  niglitly  solemn  sound; 
The  Muezzin's  call  doth  shake  tne  minaret. 
*  There  is  no  god  but  God !— to  prayer— lo,  God  is  great  V 


LORD   BYRON. 


85 


The  peculiar  quietness  and  ease  with  which  the 
Mahommedans  say  tlieir  prayers,  struck  the  travel- 
lers as  one  of  the  most  peculiar  characteristics  which 
they  had  yet  witnessed  of  that  people.  Some  of  the 
graver  sort  began  their  devotions  in  the  places  where 
they  were  sitting,  undisturbed  and  unnoticed  by  those 
around  them  who  were  otherwise  employed. — The 
prayers  last  about  ten  minutes ;  they  are  not  uttered 
aloud,  but  generally  in  a  low  voice,  sometimes  with 
only  a  motion  of  the  lips ;  and,  whether  performed 
in  the  public  street  or  in  a  room,  attract  no  attention 
from  the  by-standers.  Of  more  than  a  hundred  of 
the  guards  in  the  gallery  of  the  vizier's  mansion  at 
Tepellene,  not  more  than  five  or  six  were  seen  at 
prayers.  The  Albanians  are  not  reckoned  strict 
Mahommedans;  but  no  Turk,  however  irreligious 
himself,  ever  disturbs  the  devotion  of  others. 

It  was  then  the  fast  of  Ramazan,  and  the  tra- 
vellers, during  the  night,  were  annoyed  with  the  per- 
petual noise  of  the  carousal  kept  up  in  the  gallery; 
and  by  the  drum,  and  the  occasional  voice  of  the 
Muezzin. 

Just  at  this  season,  Ramazani's  fast 
Through  the  lon<r  day  its  penance  did  maintain : 
But  when  the  lingerinur  twilight  hour  was  past, 
Revel  and  feast  assumed  the  rule  again. 
Now  all  was  bustle,  and  the  menial  train 
Prepared  and  spread  the  plenteous  board  within; 
The  vacant  gallery  now  seem'd  made  in  vain, 
But  fVom  the  chambers  came  the  mingling  din, 
And  page  and  (iflave,  anon,  were  passing  out  and  in. 

H 


'  \i'f 


.'% 


v.a,.4i    J.I' 


:i 


86 


THE   LIFE   OF 


CHAPTER  XII. 


*•  r 


"i^^<k''i:^i] 


Audience  appointed  xoith  Ah  Pashaio — Description  of  the  Viziefa  Per* 
son— An  Audience  of  the  Vizier  of  the  Morea. 

The  progress  of  no  other  poet's  mind  can  be  so 
clearly  traced  to  personal  experience,  as  that  of 
Byron's.  The  minute  details  in  the  pilgrimage  of 
Childe  Harold  are  the  observations  of  an  actual  tra- 
veller. Had  they  been  given  in  prose,  they  could 
not  have  been  less  imbued  with  fiction.  From  this 
fidelity  they  possess  a  value  equal  to  the  excellence 
of  the  poetry,  and  ensure  for  themselves  an  interest 
as  lasting  as  it  is  intense.  When  the  manners  and 
customs  of  the  inhabitants  shall  have  been  changed 
by  time  and  the  vicissitudes  of  society,  the  scenery 
and  the  mountains  will  bear  testimony  to  the  accu- 
racy of  Lord  Byron's  descriptions. 

The  day  after  the  travellers'  arrival  at  Tepellen^ 
was  fixed  by  the  vizier  for  their  first  audience ;  and 
about  noon,  the  time  appointed,  an  officer  of  the  pa- 
lace with  a  whii;e  wand  announced  to  them  that  his 
highness  was  ready  to  receive  them,  and  accord- 
ingly they  proceeded  fiom  their  own  apartment,  ac- 
companied by  ihe  secretary  of  the  vizier,  and  attended 
by  their  own  dragoman.  The  usher  of  the  white 
rod  led  the  way,  and  conducted  them  through  a  suite 
of  meanly-furnished  apartments  to  the  presence- 
chamber.  Ali  when  they  entered  was  standing,  a 
courtesy  of  marked  distinction  from  a  Turk.  As 
they  advanced  towards  him,  he  seated  himself,  and 
requested  them  to  sit  near  him.  The  room  was 
spacious  and  handsomely  fitted  up,  surrounded  by 
that  species  of  continued  sofa  which  the  upholsterers 
call  a  divan,  covered  with  richly-embroidered  velvet: 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  a  large  marble  basin, 
in  which  a  fountain  was  playing. 


LORD   BYRON. 


87 


u- 


In  marble-paved  pavilion,  where  a  spring 
Of  living  wntpr  from  the  centre  rose, 
Whose  bubhlin*;  <lid  a  genial  fVeshness  fling, 
And  soft  voluptuous  couches  breathed  repose, 
Aiii  reclined  ;  a  man  of  war  and  woes. 
Yet  in  his  lineaments  ye  cannot  trace, 
While  Gentleness  her  milder  radiance  throws 
Along  that  aged,  venerable  face, 
The  deeds  that  lurk  beneath  and  stain  Iiim  with  disgrace. 

It  is  not  vhat  yon  hoary,  lengthening  beard, 
111  suits  the  passions  that  belong  to  youth ; 
Love  con(]uers  age— so  Ilaflz  hath  averr'd : 
So  sings  the  Teian,  and  he  sings  in  sooth — 
But  crimes  that  scorn  the  tender  voice  of  Ruth 
Beseeming  all  men  ill,  but  most  the  man 
In  years,  have  mark'd  him  with  a  tiger's  tooth- : 
Blood  follows  blood,  and  through  their  mortal  sp,.., 
In  bloodier  acts  conclude  those  who  with  blood  began. 

"When  this  was  wntten  Ali  Pashaw  was  still  living ; 
but  the  prediction  which  it  implies  was  soon  after 
verified,  and  he  closed  his  stern  and  energetic  life 
with  a  catastrophe  worthy  of  its  guilt  and  bravery. 
He  voluntarily  perished  by  firing  a  powder-magazine, 
when  surrounded,  beyond  all  chance  of  escape,  by 
the  troops  of  the  sultan  his  master,  whose  authority 
he  had  long  contemned. 

Mr.  Hobhouse  describes  him  at  this  audience  as  a 
short  fat  man,  about  five  feet  five  inches  in  height ; 
with  a  very  pleasing  face,  fair  and  round ;  and  blue 
fair  eyes,  not  settled  into  a  Turkish  gravity.  His 
beard  was  long  and  hoary,  and  such  a  one  as  any 
other  Turk  would  have  been  proud  of;  nevertheless, 
he,  who  was  more  occupied  in  attending  to  his  guests 
than  himself,  neither  gazed  at  it,  smelt  it,  nor  stroked 
it,  according  to  the  custom  of  his  countrymen,  when 
they  seek  to  fill  up  the  pauses  in  conversation.  He 
was  not  dressed  with  the  usual  magnificence  of  dig- 
nitaries of  his  degree,  except  that  his  high  turban, 
composed  of  many  small  rolls,  was  of  golden  mus- 
lin, and  his  ataghan  studded  with  diamonds. 

He  was  civil  and  urbane  in  the  entertainment  of 
his  guests,  and  requested  them  to  consider  them- 
selves as  his  children.    It  was  on  this  occasion  he 


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Hiolograiiiic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


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^"^ 


^. 


■s$ 


pf\ 


V 


23  WIST  MAIN  STRUT 

WEBSTU,N.Y.  MSM 

(716)I72-4S03 


o^ 


z 


^ 


88 


THE   LIFE   OF 


I'll 


ii!' 


i'l 


:,(  'il     ': 


iii:l 


II 


m»' 


told  Lord  Byron,  that  he  discovered  his  noble  blood 
by  the  smallness  of  his  liands  and  ears :  a  remark 
which  has  become  proverbial,  and  is  acknowledged 
not  to  be  without  truth  in  the  evidence  of  pedigree. 

The  ceremonies  on  such  visits  are  similar  all  over 
Turkey,  among  personages  of  the  same  rank ;  and  as 
Lord  Byron  has  not  described  in  verse  the  details  of 
what  took  place  with  him,  it  will  not  be  altogether 
obtrusive  here  to  recapitulate  what  happened  to  my- 
self during  a  visit  to  Velhi  Pashaw,  the  son  of  Ali : 
he  was  then  vizier  of  the  Morea,  and  residing  at  Tri- 
polizza. 

In  the  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  I  set  out  for 
the  seraglio  with  Dr.  Teriano,  the  vizier's  physician, 
and  the  vizier's  Italian  secretaiy.  The  gate  of  the 
palace  was  not  unlike  the  entrance  to  some  of  the 
closes  in  Edinburgh,  and  the  court  within  reminded 
me  of  Smithfield,  in  London;  but  it  was  not  sur- 
rounded by  such  lofty  buildings,  nor  in  any  degree 
of  comparison  so  well  constructed.  We  ascended  a 
ruinous  staircase,  which  led  to  an  open  gallery, 
where  three  or  four  hundred  of  the  vizier's  Albanian 
guards  were  lounging.  In  an  antechamber,  which 
opened  from  the  gallery,  a  number  of  officers  were 
smoking,  and  in  the  middle,  on  the  floor,  two  old 
Turks  were  seriously  engaged  at  chess. 

My  name  being  sent  in  to  the  vizier,  a  guard  of 
ceremony  was  called,  and  after  they  had  arranged 
themselves  in  the  presence-chamber,  I  was  admitted. 
The  doctor  and  the  secretary  having,  in  the  mean 
time,  taken  off  their  shoes,  accompanied  me  in  to 
act  as  interpreters. 

The  presence-chamber  was  about  forty  feet  square, 
showy  and  handsome :  round  the  walls  were  placed 
sofas,  which,  from  being  covered  with  scarlet,  re- 
minded me  of  the  woolsacks  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
In  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  elevated  on  a 
crimson  velvet  cushion,  sat  the  vizier,  wrapped  in  a 
superb  pelisse :  on  his  head  was  a  vast  turban,  in  his 


.I!,li 


m 


LORD    BYRON. 


89 


belt  a  dagger,  incrusted  with  jewels,  and  on  the  lit- 
tle finger  of  his  right  hand  he  wore  a  solitaire  as 
large  as  tlie  knob  on  ihe  stopper  of  a  vinegar-cruet, 
and  which  was  said  to  have  cost  two  thousand  five 
hundred  pounds  sterling.  In  his  left  hand  he  held  a 
string  of  small  coral  beads,  a  comboloio  which  he 
twisted  backwards  and  forwards  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  visit.  On  the  sofa  beside  him  lay  a  pair 
of  richly-ornamented  London-made  pistols.  At  some 
distance,  on  the  same  sofa,  but  not  on  a  cushion,  sat 
Me  met,  the  pashaw  of  Napoli  Romania,  whose  son 
was  contracted  in  marrias^e  to  the  vizier's  daughter. 
On  the  floor,  at  the  foot  of  this  pashaw,  and  opposite 
to  the  vizier,  a  secretary  was  writing  despatches. 
These  were  the  only  persons  in  the  room  who  had 
the  honour  of  being  seated;  for,  according  to  the 
etiquette  of  this  viceregal  court,  those  who  received 
the  vizier's  pay  were  not  allowed  to  sit  down  in  his 
presence. 

On  my  entrance,  his  highness  motioned  to  me  to 
sit  beside  him,  and  through  the  medium  of  the  inter- 
preters began  with  some  commonplace  courtly  in- 
significancies,  as  a  prelude  to  more  interesting  con- 
versation. In  his  manners  I  found  him  free  and  af- 
fable, with  a  considerable  tincture  of  humour  and 
drollery.  Among  other  questions,  he  inquired  if  I 
had  a  wife ;  and  being  answered  in  the  negative,  he 
replied  to  me  himself  in  Italian,  that  I  was  a  happy 
man,  for  he  found  his  very  troublesome :  'ionsidering 
their  probable  number,  this  was  not  unlikely.  Pipes 
and  coffee  were  in  the  mean  time  served.  The 
pipe  presented  to  the  vizier  was  at  least  twelve  feet 
long ;  the  mouth-piece  was  formed  of  a  single  block 
of  amber,  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  cucumber, 
and  fastened  to  the  shaft  by  a  broad  hoop  of  gold, 
decorated  with  jewels.  While  the  pipes  and  coffee 
were  distributing,  a  musical  clock,  which  stood  in  a 
niche,  began  to  play,  and  continued  doing  so  until 
this  ceremony  was  over.    The  coffee  was  literally 

H2 


*  '-ft 


M 


"fU 


f-  ^: 


!i!'i;V'' 


!l!l^ 


iiii 
'III' 


I'  i 


II 


90 


THE   LIFE   OF 


a  drop  of  dregs  in  a  very  small  china  cup,  placed  in 
a  golden  socket.  His  highness  was  served  with  his 
coftee  by  Pashaw  Bey,  his  generalissimo,  a  giant, 
with  the  tall  crown  of  a  dun-coloured  beaver-hat  on 
his  head.  In  returning  the  cup  to  him,  the  vizier 
elegantly  eructed  in  his  face.  After  the  regale  of 
the  pipes  and  coffee,  the  attendants  withdrew,  and 
his  highness  began  a  kind  of  political  discussion,  in 
which,  though  making  use  of  an  interpreter,  he  ma- 
naged to  convey  his  questions  with  delicacy  and  ad- 
dress. 

On  my  rising  to  retire,  his  highness  informed  me, 
with  more  polite  condescension  than  a  Christian  of 
a  thousandth  part  of  his  authority  would  have  done, 
that  during  my  stay  at  Tripolizza  horses  were  at  my 
command,  and  guards  who  would  accompany  me  to 
any  part  of  the  country  I  might  choose  to  visit. 

Next  morning,  he  sent  a  complimentary  message, 
importing,  that  he  had  ordered  dinner  to  be  prepared 
at  the  doctor's  for  me  and  two  of  his  officers.  The 
two  officers  were  lively  fellows ;  one  of  them  in  par- 
ticular seemed  to  have  acquired,  by  instinct,  a  large 
share  of  the  ease  and  politeness  of  Christendom. 
The  dinner  surpassed  all  count  and  reckoning,  dish 
followed  dish,  till  1  began  to  fancy  that  the  cook 
either  expected  I  would  honour  his  highnesses  enter- 
tainment as  Caesar  did  the  supper  of  Cicero,  or  sup- 
posed that  the  party  were  not  *^nite  beings.  During 
the  course  of  this  amazi.;  rvice,  the  principal 
singers  and  musicians  of  tiie  seraglio  arrived,  and 
sung  and  played  several  pieces  of  very  sweet  Turkish 
music.  Among  others  was  a  song  composed  by  the 
late  unfortunate  sultan  Selim,  the  air  of  which  was 
pleasingly  simple  and  pathetic.  I  had  heard  of  the 
sultan's  poetry  before,  a  small  collection  of  which 
has  been  printed.  It  is  said  to  be  interesting  and 
tender,  consisting  chiefly  of  little  sonnets,  written 
after  he  was  deposed;  in  which  he  contrasts  the 
tranquillity  of  his  retirement  with  the  perils  and  anz- 


-S- 


LORD  BYRON. 


iieties  of  his  former  grandeur.  After  the  songs,  the 
servants  of  the  officers,  who  were  Albanians,  danced 
a  Macedonian  reel,  in  which  they  exhibited  several 
furious  specimens  of  Highland  agility.  The  officers 
then  took  their  leave,  and  I  went  to  bed,  equally  gra- 
tified by  the  hospitality  of  the  vizier  and  the  incidents 
of  the  entertainment. 


s.«it  » 


CHAPTER  XHI. 

TTie  tiffiect  of  Ali  PashauPs  Character  on  Lord  Byron — Sketch  of  tJu 
Career  of  A  li,  and  the  Perseverance  with  which  he  pursued  the  (xijects 
of  his  Ambition. 

Although  many  traits  and  lineaments  of  Lord 
Byron's  own  character  may  be  traced  in  the  portraits 
of  his  heroes,  I  have  yet  often  thought  that  Ali 
Pashaw  was  the  model  from  which  he  drew  several 
of  their  most  remarkable  features;  and  on  this 
account  it  may  be  expedient  to  give  a  sketch  of 
that  bold  and  stern  personage ; — if  1  am  correct  in 
my  conjecture — and  the  reader  can  judge  for  himself 
when  the  picture  is  before  him — it  would  be  a  great 
defect,  according  to  the  plan  of  this  work,  not  to 
do  so. 

Ali  Pashaw  was  bom  at  Tepellen^,  about  the  year 
1750.  His  father  was  a  pashaw  of  two  tails,  but 
possessed  of  little  influence.  At  his  death  Ali  suc- 
ceeded to  no  inheritance  but  the  house  in  which  he 
was  born ;  and  it  was  his  boast,  in  the  plenitude  of 
his  power,  that  he  began  his  fortune  with  sixty  paras, 
about  eighteen  pence  sterling,  and  a  musket.  At 
that  time  the  country  was  much  infested  with  cattle- 
stealers,  and  the  flocks  and  herds  of  the  neighbour- 
ing villages  were  often  plundered. 

Ali  collected  a  few  followers  from  among  the  re- 


t- 


V  i 


92 


THE    LIFE    OP 


'<■> 

,;ll:i; 


'liii 

i 


'^^!"ii: 


Hi! 


II 
iii: 


I'  il 


!  i 


t 


tainers  of  his  father,  made  himself  master,  first  of 
one  village,  then  of  another,  amassed  money,  in- 
creased his  power,  and  at  last  found  himself  at  the 
head  of  a  considerable  body  of  Albanians,  whom  he 
paid  by  plunder ;  for  he  was  then  only  a  great  robber 
— the  Rob  Roy  of  Albania :  in  a  word,  one  of  those 
independent  freebooters  who  divide  among  them- 
selves so  much  of  the  riches  and  revenues  of  the 
Ottoman  dominions. 

In  following  up  this  career,  he  met  with  many  ad- 
ventures and  reverses,  but  his  course  was  still 
onwards,  and  uniformly  distinguished  by  enterprise 
and  cruelty.  His  enemies  expected  no  mercy  when 
vanquished  in  the  field  ;  and  when  accidentally 
seized  in  private,  they  were  treated  with  equal  rigour. 
It  is  reported  that  he  even  roasted  alive  on  spits 
some  of  his  most  distinguished  adversaries. 

When  he  had  collected  money  enough,  he  bought 
a  pashalic ;  and  being  invested  with  that  dignity,  he 
became  still  more  eager  to  enlarge  his  possessions. 
He  continued  in  constant  war  with  the  neighbouring 
pashaws ;  and  cultivating,  by  adroit  agents,  the  most 
infiuential  interest  at  Constantinople,  he  finally  ob- 
tained possession  of  Joannina,  and  was  confirmed 
pashaw  of  the  territory  attached  to  it,  by  an  imperial 
firman.  He  then  went  to  war  with  the  pashaws  of 
Arta,  of  Delvino,  and  of  Ocrida,  whom  he  subdued, 
together  with  that  of  Triccala,  and  established  a 
predominant  influence  over  the  agas  of  Thessaly. 
The  pashaw  of  Vallona  he  poisoned  in  a  bath  at 
Sophia;  and  strengthened  his  power  by  marrying 
his  two  sons,  Mouctar  and  Velhi,  to  the  daughters 
of  the  successor  and  brother  of  the  man  whom  he 
had  murdered.  In  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  Lord 
Byron  describes  the  assassination,  but  applies  it  to 
another  party. 


Reclined  and  feverish  in  the  bath, 
He,  when  the  hunter's  sport  was  npi 


LORD   BTRON. 

But  little  deemed  a  brother's  wrath 
To  quench  his  thirst  had  surh  a  cup : 
The  bowl  a  bribed  attendant  bore — 
He  drank  one  draught,  nor  needed  more. 


M 


During  this  progression  of  his  fortunes,  he  had 
been  more  than  once  called  upon  to  furnish  his  quota 
of  troops  to  the  imperial  armies,  and  had  served  at 
their  head  with  distinction  against  the  Russians. 
He  knew  his  countrymen,  however,  too  well  ever  to 
trust  himself  at  Constantinople.  It  was  reported 
that  he  had  frequently  been  offered  some  of  the 
highest  offices  in  the  empire,  but  he  always  declined 
them  and  sought  for  power  only  among  the  fast- 
nesses of  Tiis  native  region.  Stories  of  the  skill 
and  courage  with  which  he  counteracted  several 
machinations  to  procure  his  head,  were  current  and 
popular  throughout  the  country,  and  among  the 
Greeks  in  general  he  was  certainly  regarded  as  infe- 
rior only  to  the  grand  vizier  himself.  But  though 
distrusting  and  distrusted,  he  always  in  the  field 
fought  for  the  sultan  with  great  bravery,  particularly 
against  the  famous  rebel  Pas  wan  Oglou.  On  his 
return  from  that  war  in  1798,  he  was,  in  consequence, 
made  a  pashaw  of  three  tails,  or  vizier,  and  was 
more  than  once  offered  the  ultimate  dignity  of  grand 
vizier,  but  he  still  declined  all  the  honours  of  the 
metropolis.  The  object  of  his  ambition  was  not 
temporary  power,  but  to  found  a  kingdom. 

He  procured,  however,  pashalics  for  his  two  sons, 
the  younger  of  whom,  Velhi,  saved  sufficient  money 
in  his  first  government  to  buy  the  pashalic  of  the 
Morea,  with  the  dignity  of  vizier,  for  which  he  paid 
seventy-five  thousand  pounds  sterling.  His  eldest 
son,  Mouctar,  was  of  a  more  warlike  turn,  with  less 
ambition  than  his  brother.  At  the  epoch  of  which  I 
am  speaking,  he  supplied  his  father^s  place,  at  the 
head  of  the  Albanians  in  the  armies  of  the  sultan, 
in  which  he  greatly  distinguished  himself  in  the 
campaign  of  1809  against  the  Russians. 


'I 


^!! 


04 


THE   LIF£   OF 


f. 


ill: 

m 

m 


'ill 


The  difficulties  which  Ali  Pashaw  had  to  encoun- 
ter in  establishing  his  ascendency,  did  not  arise  so 
much  from  the  opposition  he  met  with  from  the 
neighbouring  pashaws  as  from  the  nature  of  the 
people,  and  of  the  country  of  which  he  was  deter- 
mined to  make  himself  master.  Many  of  the  plains 
and  valleys  which  composed  his  dominions  were 
occupied  by  inhabitants  who  had  been  always  in 
rebellion,  and  were  never  entirely  conquered  by  the 
Turks,  such  as  the  Chimeriotes,  the  Sulliotes,  and 
the  nations  living  among  the  mountains  adjacent  to 
the  coast  of  the  Ionian  Sea.  Besides  this,  the  woods 
and  hills  of  every  part  of  his  dominions. were  in  a 
great  degree  possessed  by  formidable  bands  of  rob- 
bers, who,  recruited  and  protected  by  the  villages, 
and  commanded  by  chiefs  as  brave  and  as  enter- 
prising as  himself,  laid  extensive  tracts  under  con- 
tribution, burning  and  plundering  regardless  of  his 
jurisdiction.  Against  these  he  proceeded  with  the 
most  iron  severity ;  they  were  burned,  hanged,  be- 
headed, and  impaled,  in  all  parts  of  the  country, 
until  they  were  either  exterminated  or  expelled. 

A  short  time  before  the  arrival  of  Lord  Byron  at 
Joannina,  a  large  body  of  insurgents  who  infested 
the  mountains  between  that  city  and  Tnccala,  were 
defeated  and  dispersed  by  Mouctar  Pashaw,  who  cut 
to  pieces  a  hundred  of  them  on  the  spot.  These 
robbers  had  been  headed  by  a  Greek  priest,  who,  after 
the  defeat,  went  to  Constantinople  and  procured  a 
firman  of  protection,  with  which  he  ventu^red  to  re- 
turn to  Joannina,  where  the  vizier  invited  him  to  a 
conference,  and  made  him  a  prisoner.  In  deference 
to  the  firman,  Ali  confined  him  in  prison,  but  used 
him  well  until  a  messenger  could  bring  from  Con- 
stantinople a  permission  from  the  Porte  to  authorize 
him  to  do  what  he  pleased  with  the  rebel. — It  was 
the  arm  of  this  man  which  Byron  beheld  suspended 
from  the  bough  on  entering  Joannina. 

By  these  vigorous  measures,  AU  Pashaw  rendered 


LORD  BYRON. 


95 


the  greater  part  of  Albania  and  the  contiguous  dis- 
tricts safely  accessible,  which  were  before  overrun 
by  bandits  and  freebooters;  and  consequently,  by 
opening  the  country  to  merchants,  and  securing  their 
persons  and  goods,  not  only  increased  his  own  reve- 
nues, but  improved  the  condition  of  his  subjects. 
He  built  bridges  over  thf  rivers,  raised  causeways 
over  the  marshes,  opened  roads,  adorned  the  country 
and  the  towns  with  new  buildings,  and  by  many  sa- 
lutary regulations,  acted  the  part  of  a  just,  though  a 
merciless,  prince. 

In  private  life  he  was  no  less  distinguished  for  the 
same  unmitigated  cruelty,  but  he  afforded  many  ex- 
amples of  strong  affection.  The  wife  of  his  son 
Mouctar  was  a  great  favourite  with  the  old  man. 
Upon  paying  her  a  visit  one  morning,  he  found  her 
in  tears.  He  questioned  her  several  times  as  to  the 
cause  of  her  grief;  she  at  last  reluctantly  acknow- 
ledged that  it  arose  from  the  diminution  of  her  hus- 
band's regard.  He  inquired  if  she  thought  he  paid 
attention  to  other  women ;  the  reply  was  in  the  af- 
firmative ;  and  she  related  that  a  lady  of  the  name 
of  Phrosyne,  the  wife  of  a  rich  Jew,  had  beguiled 
her  of  her  husband's  love ;  for  she  had  seen  at  the 
bath,  upon  the  finger  of  Phrosyne,  a  rich  ring,  which 
had  belonged  to  Mouctar,  and  which  she  bar  '^ften 
in  vain  entreated  him  to  give  to  her.  Ali  imi»  edi- 
ately  ordered  the  lady  to  be  seized,  and  to  be  tied  up 
in  a  sack,  and  cast  into  the  lake.  Various  versions 
of  this  tragical  tale  are  met  with  in  all  parts  of  the 
country,  and  the  fate  of  Fhrosyn*^  is  imbodied  in  a 
ballad  of  touching  pathos  and  melody. 

That  the  character  of  this  intrepid  and  ruthless 
warrior  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  mind  of  By- 
ron cannot  be  questioned.  The  serenes  in  which  he 
acted  were,  as  the  poet  traversed  the  country,  every 
where  around  him;  and  his  achievements,  bloody, 
dark,  and  brave,  had  become  themes  of  $ong  and 
admiration.       - . 


/ 


"Si 


.f'  -ff^t 


f.  _jj>  1 


^'1 ; ' 


f' 


06 


THE   LIFE   or 


iiUfl 


'=^'1! 


%  !'ill!i!i 


^•'.'ija 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Leave  Joannina  for  Prevesa—Land  at   Fanari-'Albaniar-'Byron?§ 
Character  of  the  Inhabitants. 

Having  gratified  their  curiosity  with  an  inspec- 
tion of  every  object  of  interest  at  Tepellen^,  the  tra- 
vellers returned  to  Joannina,  where  they  again  re- 
sided several  days,  partaking  of  the  hospitality  of 
the  principal  inhabitants.  On  the  3d  of  November 
they  bade  it  adieu,  and  returned  to  Salona,  on  the 
Gulf  of  Ana;  where,  in  consequence  of  hearing 
that  the  inhabitants  of  Carnia  were  up  in  arms,  that 
numerous  bands  of  robbers  had  descended  from  the 
mountains  of  Zic(;ola  and  Agrapha,  and  had  made 
their  appearance  on  the  other  side  of  the  gulf,  they 
resolved  to  proceed  by  water  to  Prevesa,  and  having 
presented  an  order  which  they  had  received  from  Ali 
Pashaw,  for  the  use  of  his  galliot,  she  was  immedi- 
ately fitted  out  to  convey  them.  In  the  course  of 
the  voyage  they  suffered  a  great  deal  of  alarm,  ran 
some  risk,  and  were  obliged  to  land  on  the  mainland 
of  Albania,  in  a  bay  called  Fanari,  contiguous  to  the 
mountainous  district  of  Sulli.  There  they  procured 
horses,  and  rode  to  Volondorako,  a  town  belonging 
to  the  vizier,  by  the  primate  of  which  and  his  high- 
nesses garrison  they  were  received  with  all  imagina- 
ble civility.  Having  passed  the  night  there,  they 
departed  in  the  morning,  which,  proving  bright  and 
beautiful,  afforded  them  interesting  views  of  the  iSteep 
romantic  environs  of  Sulli. 

Land  or  Albania,  where  Iskander  rose, 
Theme  of  the  young,  and  beacon  of  the  wise, 
And  he  his  namesake  whose  oft-baffled  foes  < 

Shrunk  from  his  deeds  of  chivalrous  emprise ; 
Land  of  Albania !  let  me  bend  mine  eyes 
On  thee,  thou  rugged  nurse  of  savage  men! 
The  cross  descends,  thy  minarets  arise, 
And  the  pale  crescent  sparkles  in  the  glen, 
Through  many  a  cypress  grove  within  each  city'sken. 


LORD  BYRON. 


07 


Of  the  inhabitants  of  Albania — the  Amaouts  or 
Albanese — Lord  Byron  says  they  reminded  him 
strongly  of  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland,  whom  they 
undoubtedly  resemble  in  dress,  figure,  and  manner  of 
living.  "The  very  mountains  seemed  Caledonian 
with  a  kinder  climate.  The  kilt,  though  white,  the 
spare  aetive  form,  their  dialect,  Celtic  in  its  sound, 
and  their  hardy  habits,  all  carried  me  back  to  Mor- 
ven.  No  nation  are  so  detested  and  dreaded  by  their 
neighbours  as  the  Albanese ;  the  Greeks  hardly  re- 
gard them  as  Christians,  or  the  Turks  as  Moslems, 
and  in  fact  they  are  a  mixture  of  both,  and  sometimes 
neither.  Their  habits  are  predatory :  all  are  armed, 
and  the  red-shawled  Amaouts,  the  Montenegrins,  Chi- 
meriotes,  and  Gedges,  are  treacherous ;  the  others 
differ  'somewhat  in  garb,  and  essentially  in  charac- 
ter. As  far  as  my  own  experience  goes,  I  can  speak 
favourably.  1  was  attended  by  two,  an  infidel  and 
a  Mussulman,  to  Constantinople  and  every  other  part 
of  Turkey  which  came  within  my  observations,  and 
more  faithful  in  peril  and  indefatigable  in  service  are 
no  where  to  be  found.  The  infidel  was  named  Ba- 
silius,  the  Moslem  Dervish  Tahiri ;  the  former  a  man 
of  middle  age,  and  the  latter  about  my  own.  Basili 
was  strictly  charged  by  Ali  Pashaw  in  person  to  at- 
tend us,  and  Dervish  was  one  of  fifty  who  accompa- 
nied us  through  the  forests  of  Acarnania,  to  the  banks 
of  the  Acheloiis,  and  onward  to  Missolonghi.  There 
I  took  him  into  my  own  service,  and  never  had  occa- 
sion to  repent  it  till  the  moment  of  my  departure. 

"When  in  1810,  after  my  friend,  Mr.  Hobhouse, 
left  me  for  England,  I  was  seized  with  a  severe  fever 
in  the  Morea,  these  men  saved  my  life  by  frightening 
away  my  physician^  whose  throat  they  threatened 
to  cut  if  I  was  not  cured  within  a  given  time.  To 
this  consolatory  assurance  of  posthumous  retribu- 
tion, and  a  resolute  refusal  of  Dr.  Romanelli^s  pre- 
scriptions, I  attributed  my  recovery.  I  had  left  my 
last  remaining  English  servant  at  Athens;  my  dra- 


¥.    I, 


lit 


I 


08 


THE   LIFE    OF 


ImmJ 

i|ii 

1 

t            ' 

■1 

m 


ilii'i!';; 


i...,;  I 


goman  was  as  ill  as  myself,  and  my  poor  Amaouts 
nursed  me  witli  an  attention  which  would  have  done 
honour  to  civilizHtion. 

**  They  had  a  variety  of  adventures,  for  the  Mos- 
lem, Dervish,  being;  a  remarkably  handsome  man, 
was  always  squabbling  with  the  husbands  of  Athens ; 
insomuch  that  four  of  the  principal  Turks  paid  me  a 
visit  of  remonstrance  at  the  convent,  on  the  subject 
of  his  having  taken  a  woman  to  the  bath — whom  he 
had  lawfully  bought,  however — a  thing  quite  contrary 
to  etiquette. 

"  Basili  also  was  extremely  gallant  among  his  own 
persuasion,  and  had  the  greatest  veneration  for  the 
church,  mixed  with  the  highest  contempt  of  churcjh- 
men,  whom  he  cuffed  upon  occasion  in  a  most  hete- 
rodox manner.  Yet  he  never  passed  a  church  with- 
out crossing  himself;  and  1  remember  the  risk  he 
ran  on  entering  St.  Sophia,  in  Stamboul,  because  it 
had  once  been  a  place  of  his  worsliip*  On  remon- 
strating with  him  on  his  inconsistent  proceedhigSy 
he  invariably  answered,  *Our  (;hurch  is  holy,  our 
priests  are  thieves ;'  and  then  he  crossed  himself  a« 
usual,  and  boxed  the  ears  of  the  first  papas  who  re* 
fused  to  assist  in  any  required  operation,  as  was 
always  found  to  be  necessary  where  a  priest  had  any 
influence  with  the  Cogia  Bashi  of  his  village.  In- 
deed, a  more  abandoned  race  of  miscreants  cannot 
exist,  than  the  lower  orders  of  the  Greek  clergy. 

"  When  preparations  were  made  for  my  return,  my 
Albanians  were  summoned  to  receive  their  pay. 
Basili  took  his  with  an  awkward  show  of  regret  at 
my  intended  departure,  and  marched  away  to  his 
quarters  with  his  bag  of  piastres.  I  sent  for  Der- 
vish, but  for  some  time  he  was  not  to  be  found }  at 
last  he  entered  just  as  Signor  Logotheti,  father  to 
the  ci-devant  Anglo-consul  of  Athens,  and  some  other 
of  my  Greek  acquaintances,  paid  me  a  visit.  Der- 
vish took  the  money,  but  on  a  sudden  dashed  it  on 
the  groimd;  and  clasping  his  hands,  which  he  raised 


m 


LORD  BYRON. 


09 


to  his  forehead,  nished  out  of  the  room  weeping 
bitterly.  From  that  moment  to  the  hour  of  my  em- 
barkation, he  continued  his  lamentations,  and  all  our 
efforts  to  console  him  only  produced  this  answer, 
*  He  leaves  me.'  Signor  Logotheti,  who  never  wept 
before  for  any  thing  less  than  the  loss  of  a  paras, 
melted;  the  padre  of  the  convent,  my  attendants, 
my  visiters,  and  I  verily  believe  that  even  Sterne's 
foolish  fat  scullion  would  have  left  her  fish-kittle  to 
sympathize  with  the  unaflected  and  unexpected  sor- 
row of  this  barbarian. 

"  For  my  part,  when  I  remembered  that  a  short 
time  before  my  departure  from  England,  a  noMe  and 
most  intimate  associate  had  excused  himself  from 
taking  leave  of  me,  because  he  had  to  attend  a  rela- 
tion *  to  a  milliner's,'  I  felt  no  less  surprised  than 
humiliated  by  the  present  occurrence  and  the  past 
recollection. 

"  The  Albanians  in  general  (I  do  not  mean  the  cul- 
tivators of  the  earth  in  the  provinces,  who  have  also 
that  appellation,  but  the  mountaineers)  have  a  fine 
cast  oi  countenance ;  and  the  most  beautiful  women  I 
have  ever  beheld,  in  stature  and  in  features,  we  saw  le- 
velling the  road  broken  down  by  the  torrents  between 
Delvinaki  and  Libokavo.  Their  manner  of  walking 
is  tnily  theatrical,  but  this  strut  is  probably  the  effect 
of  the  capote  or  cloak  depending  from  one  shoulder. 
Their  long  hair  reminds  you  of  the  Spartans,  and 
their  courage  in  desultory  warfare  is  unquestionable. 
Though  they  have  some  cavalry  among  the  Gedges, 
I  never  saw  a  good  Arnaout  horseman,  but  on  foot 
they  are  never  to  be  subdued." 

The  travellers  having  left  Volondorako  proceeded 
southward  till  they  came  near  to  the  seaside,  an^^ 
passing  along  the  shore,  under  a  castle  belonging  tdl 
Ali  Pashaw,  on  the  lofty  summit  of  a  steep  rock, 
they  at  last  reached  Nicopolis  again,  the  ruins  of 
which  they  revisited. 

On  their  arrival  at  Prevesa,  they  had  no  choice 


i  ■ 


k 


#  .. 


<•!*.■ 


tm^mmmmi 


too 


THE   LIFE   OF 


m 


it'll 


'    ! 


llilllli 


iii 


J 
li.'l 


♦- 


left  but  that  of  crossing  Camia,  and  the  country 
being",  as  already  mentioned,  overrun  with  robbers, 
they  provided  themselves  with  a  guard  of  thirty- 
seven  soldiers,  and  procured  another  galliot  to  take 
them  down  the  Gulf  of  Arta,  to  the  place  whence 
they  were  to  commence  their  land  journey. 

Having  embarked,  they  continued  sailing  with 
very  little  wind  until  they  reached  the  fortress  of 
Vonitza,  where  they  waited  all  night  for  the  fresh- 
ening of  the  morning  breeze,  with  which  they  again 
set  sail,  and  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
arrived  at  Utraikee. 

At  this  place  there  was  only  a  custom-house  and 
a  barrack  for  troops  close  to  each  other,  and  sur- 
rounded except  towards  the  water,  by  a  high  wall. 
In  the  evening  the  gates  were  secured,  and  prepara- 
tions made  for  feeding  their  Albanian  guards;  a 
goat  was  killed  and  roasted  whole,  and  four  fires 
were  kindled  in  the  yard,  around  which  the  soldiers 
seated  themselves  in  parties.  After  eating  and 
drinking,  the  greater  part  of  them  assembled  at  the 
largest  of  the  fires,  and,  while  the  travellers  were 
themselves  with  the  elders  of  the  party  seated  on 
the  ground,  danced  round  the  blaze  to  their  own 
songs,  with  astonishing  Highland  energy. 

Ghilde  Harold  at  a  little  distance  stood, 
And  view'd,  but  not  displeased,  the  revelry, 
Nor  hated  harmless  mirth,  however  rude ; 
In  sooth,  it  was  no  vulj^ar  sight  to  see 
Their  barbarous,  yet  their  not  indecent  glee; 
And  as  the  flames  along  their  Ihces  gleam'd, 
^  Their  gestures  nimble,  dark  eyes  flashing  fVee, 

The  long  wild  locks  that  to  their  girdles  stream'd, 
While  thus  in  concert  they  this  lay  hair  sang,  half  screamed. 


f 


"  I  talk  not  of  mercy,  I  talk  not  of  fear ;  \ 

He  neither  must  know  who  would  serve  the  vizier; 


Since  the  days  of  our  prophet,  the  crescent  ne'er  saw    ^^ 
A  chief  ever  glorious  like  Ali  Pashaw  "  .erV'' 


'.'  K  « 


LORD    BYRON. 


101 


.5 


■I 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Leave  Utraikee— Dangerous  Pass  in  the  Woods— Catoona— Quarrel 
between  the  Guard  and  Primate  of  the  Village— Makala—Gouri— 
jMissolonghi— Parnassus. 

Having  spent  the  nig-ht  at  Utraikee,  Byron  and  his 
friend  continued  their  journey  southward.  The  re- 
ports of  the  state  of  the  country  induced  them  to 
take  ten  additional  soldiers  with  them,  as  their  road 
for  the  first  two  hours  lay  through  dangerous  passes 
in  the  forest.  On  approaching  these  places  fifteen 
or  twenty  of  the  party  walked  briskly  on  before, 
and  when  they  had  gone  through  the  pass  halted 
until  the  travellers  came  up.  In  the  woods  two  or 
three  green  spots  were  discovered  on  the  road-side, 
and  on  them  Turkish  tombstones,  generally  under 
a  clump  of  trees,  and  near  a  well  or  fountain. 

When  they  had  passed  the  forest  they  reached  an 
open  country,  whence  they  sent  back  the  ten  men 
whom  they  had  brought  from  Utraikee.  They  then 
passed  on  to  a  village  called  Catoona,  where  they 
arrived  by  noon.  It  was  their  intention  to  have 
proceeded  farther  that  day,  but  their  progress  was 
interrupted  by  an  affair  between  their  Albanian 
guard  and  the  primate  of  the  village.  As  they  were 
looking  about,  while  horses  were  collecting  to  cany 
their  luggage,  one  of  the  soldiers  drew  his  sword  at 
the  primate,  the  head  Greek  magistrate ;  guns  were 
cocked,  and  in  an  instant,  before  either  Lord  Byron 
or  Mr.  Hobhouse  could  stop  the  affray,  the  primate, 
throwing  off  his  shoes  and  cloak,  fled  so  preci- 
pitately that  he  rolled  down  the  hill  and  dislocated 
his  shoulder.  It  was  a  long  time  before  they  could 
persuade  him  to  return  to  his  house,  where  they 
lodged,  and  when  he  did  return  he  remarked  that  he 
cared  comparatively  little  about  his  shoulder  to  the 

12 


m 


r 


~*mmmtKim 


iiPP 


102 


THE   LIFE   OF 


■''.fc 


loss  of  a  purse  with  fifteen  sequins,  which  dropped 
out  of  his  pocket  during  the  tumble.  The  hint  was 
understood. 

Catoona  is  inhabited  by  Greeks  only,  and  is  a 
rural,  well-built  village.  The  primate's  house  was 
neatly  fitted  up  with  sofas.  Upon  a  knoll,  in  the 
middle  of  the  village,  stood  a  schoolhouse,  and 
from  that  spot  the  view  was  very  extensive.  To 
the  west  are  lofty  mountains,  rangmg  from  north  to 
south,  near  the  coast ;  to  the  east  a  grand  romantic 
prospect  in  the  distance,  and  in  the  foreground  a 
green  valley,  with  a  considerable  river  winding 
through  a  long  line  of  country. 

They  had  some  difficulty  in  procuring  horses  at 
Catoona,  and  in  consequence  were  detained  till  past 
eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning,  and  only  travelled 
four  hours  that  day  to  Makala,  a  well-built  stone  vil- 
lage, containing  about  forty  houses  distinct  from 
each  other,  and  inhabited  by  Greeks,  who  were  a 
little  above  the  condition  of  peasants,  being  en- 
gaged in  pasturage  and  a  small  wool-trade. 

The  travellers  were  now  in  Carnia,  where  they 
found  the  inhabitants  much  better  lodged  than  in 
the  Albanian  villages.  The  house  in  which  tliey 
slept  at  this  place  resembled  those  old  mansions 
which  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  bottoms  of  the 
Wiltshire  Downs.  Two  green  courts,  one  before 
and  the  other  behind,  were  attached  to  it,  and  the 
whole  were  surrounded  by  a  high  and  thick  wall, 
which  shut  out  the  prospect,  but  was  necessary  in  a 
country  so  frequently  overrun  by  strong  bands  of 
freebooters. 

From  Makala  they  proceeded  through  the  woods, 
and  in  the  course  of  their  journey  passed  three  new- 
made  graves,  which  the  Albanians  pointing  at  as 
they  rode  by,  said  they  were  "  robbers."  In  the 
course  of  the  journey  they  had  a  distant  view  of 
the  large  town  of  Vraikore,  on  the  left  bank  of  the 
Aspro,  but  they  did  not  approach  it,  crossing  the 


e^* 


LORD   BYRON. 


lOS 


river  by  a  ferry  to  the  village  of  Gouria,  where  they 
passed  the  night. 

Leaving  that  place  in  the  morning,  they  took  an 
easterly  direction,  and  continued  to  ride  across  a  plain 
of  cornfields,  near  the  banks  of  the  river,  in  a  rich 
country ;  sometimes  over  stone  causeways,  and  be- 
tween the  hedges  of  gardens  and  olive-groves,  until 
they  were  stopped  by  the  sea.  This  was  that  fruit- 
ful region  formerly  called  Paracheloitis,  which,  ac- 
cording to  classit;  allegory,  was  drained  or  torn  from 
the  river  Achelous,  by  the  perseverance  of  Hercules 
and  presented  by  him  for  a  nuptial  present  to  the 
daughter  of  Oeneus. 

The  water  at  which  they  had  now  arrived  was 
rather  a  salt-marsh  than  the  sea,  a  shallow  bay 
stretching  from  the  mouth  of  the  Gulf  of  Lepantointo 
the  land  for  several  miles.  Having  dismissed  their 
horses,  they  passed  over  in  boats  to  Natolico,  atown 
which  stood  in  the  water.  Here  they  fell  in  with  a 
hospitable  .Tew,  who  made  himself  remembered  by 
saying  that  he  was  honouied  in  their  having  partaken 
of  his  little  miseiy. 

Natolico,  where  they  staid  for  the  night,  was  a  well- 
built  town ;  the  houses  of  timber,  chiefly  of  two  sto- 
ries, and  about  six  hundred  in  number.  Having  sent 
on  their  baggage  in  boats,  they  proceeded  themselves 
to  the  town  of  Missolonghi,  so  celebrated  since  as 
having  suffered  greatly  during  the  recent  rebellion  of 
the  Greeks,  but  more  particularly  as  the  place  where 
Lord  Byron  died. 

Missolonghi  is  situated  on  the  south  side  of  the 
salt-marsh  or  shallow,  along  the  north  coast  of  the 
Gulf  of  Corinth,  nearly  opposite  to  Patras.  It  is  a 
dull,  and  I  should  think  an  unwholesome  place.  The 
marsh,  for  miles  on  each  side,  has  only  from  a  foot 
to  two  feet  of  water  on  it,  but  there  is  a  channel  for 
boats  marked  out  by  perches.  Wlien  I  was  there  the 
weather  was  extremely  wet,  and  I  had  no  other  op- 
portunity of  seeing  the  character  of  the  adjacent  coun- 


^ 


\m 


104 


THE    LIFE   Of 


try  than  during  the  intervals  of  the  showers.  It  was 
green  and  pastoral,  with  a  short  skirt  of  cultivation 
along  the  bottom  of  the  hills. 

Abrupt  and  rapid  as  the  foregoing  sketch  of  the 
journey  through  Albania  has  been,  it  is  evident  from 
the  novelty  of  its  circumstances  that  it  could  not  be 
performed  without  leaving  deep  impressions  on  the 
susceptible  mind  of  the  poet.  It  is  impossible,  I 
think,  not  to  allow  that  far  more  of  the  wildness  and 
romantic  gloom  of  his  imagination  was  derived  from 
the  incidents  of  this  tour,  than  from  all  the  previous 
experience  of  his  life.  The  scenes  he  visited,  the 
characters  with  whom  he  became  familiar,  and  above 
all,  the  chartered  feelings,  passions,  and  principles  of 
the  inhabitants,  were  greatly  calculated  to  supply  his 
mind  with  rare  and  valuable  poetical  materials.  It 
is  only  in  this  respect  that  the  details  of  his  travels 
are  interesting.— Considered  as  constituting  a  portion 
of  the  education  of  his  genius,  they  are  highly  curi- 
ous, and  serve  to  show  how  little,  after  all,  of  great 
invention  is  requisite  to  make  interesting  and  mag- 
nificent poetry. 

From  Missolonghi  the  travellers  passed  over  the 
Gulf  of  Corinth  to  Patras,  then  a  rude,  half-ruined, 
open  town  with  a  fortress  on  the  top  of  a  hill ;  and  on 
the  4th  of  December,  in  the  afternoon,  they  proceeded 
towards  Corinth,  but  halted  at  Vostizza,  the  ancient 
uEgium,  where  they  obtained  their  first  view  of  Par- 
nassus, on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gulf,  rising  high 
above  the  other  peaks  of  that  hilly  region,  and  capped 
with  snow.  It  probably  was  during  this  first  visit  to 
yostizza  that  the  address  to  Parnassus  was  suggested* 

Oh,  thou  Parnassus  I  whom  I  now  survey, 
Not  in  the  phrensy  of  a  dreamer's  eye, 
•>•  Not  in  the  fabled  landscape  of  a  lay,  •  '    . 

But  soaring  snow-clad  tbroy^h  thy  iistive  8ky> 
In  the  wild  pomp  of  mountain  majesty '  • 

..   J,>  '     What  marvel  if  I  thus  essay  to  sing  ^ 
^sj-.        The  humblest  of  thy  pilgrims  passing  by 

Would  gladly  woo  thine  echoes  with  his  stnng, 
ThfiiUgli  worn  ttiy  heigbts  no  moire  one  muKe  will  wav)B  her  wing. 


LORD   BYRON^ 

Oft  have  I  dream*d  of  thee !  -whose  glorious  name 
Who  knows  not,  knows  not  man's divinest  lore; 
And  now  I  view  thee,  't  is,  alas !  with  shame 
That  I  in  feeblest  accents  nmst  adore. 
When  I  recount  thy  worshippers  of  yore 
I  tremble,  and  can  only  bend  the  knee ; 
Nor  raise  my  voice,  nor  vainly  dare  to  soar, 
But  gaze  beneath  thy  cloudy  canopy 
In  silent  joy,  to  think  at  last  I  look  on  thee. 


109 


I 


'P 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


'T* 


Vostizza — Battle  of  Ijepmito — Pnmassns—Livndia — Cave  of  Tropluh 
nhis—The  Fotintains  of  Oblivion  ami  Memory— Charonea — TTubes 
'-Athens. 

Vostizza  was  then  a  considerable  town,  containing 
between  three  and  four  thousand  inhabitants,  chiefly 
Greeks.  It  stands  on  a  rising  ground  on  the  Pelo- 
ponnesian  side  of  the  Gulf  of  Corinth.  I  say  stands, 
but  I  know  not  if  it  has  survived  the  war.  The  scenery 
around  it  will  always  make  it  delightful,  while  the  as- 
sociations co!nie(;ted  with  the  A(thaian  league,  and 
the  important  events  which  have  happened  in  the  vi- 
cinity, will  ever  render  the  site  interesting.  The  bat- 
tle of  Lepanto,  in  which  Cervantes  lost  his  hand,  was 
fought  within  sight  of  it. 

What  a  strange  thing  is  glory!  Three  hundred 
years  ago  all  Christendom  rang  with  the  battle  of 
Lepanto,  and  yet  it  is  alieady  probable  that  it  will 
only  be  interesting  to  posterity  as  an  incident  in  the 
life  of  one  of  the  private  soldiers  engaged  in  it.  This 
is  certainly  no  very  mournful  reflection  to  one  who 
is  of  opinion  that  there  is  no  permanent  fame,  but 
that  which  is  obtained  by  adding  totlie  comforts  and 
pleasures  of  mankind.  Military  transacrtions,  after 
their  immediate  effet^ts  cease  to  be  felt,  are  little  pro- 
ductive of  such  H  result.    Not  that  I  value  militaiy 


'dS^ 


* 


«HM 


106 


THE   LIFE   OF 


'"^,- 


iiiiiiiii 


m. 


virtues  the  less  by  being  of  this  opinion ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  am  the  more  convinced  of  their  excellence. 
Burke  has  unguardedly  said,  that  vice  loses  half  its 
malignity  by  losing  its  grossness ;  but  public  virtue 
ceases  to  be  useful  Avhen  it  sickens  at  the  calamities 
of  necessary  war.  The  moment  that  nations  be- 
come confident  of  security,  they  give  way  to  corrup- 
tion. The  evils  and  dangers  of  war  seem  as  requi- 
site for  the  preservation  of  public  morals  as  the  laws 
themselves ;  at  least  it  is  the  melancholy  moral  of 
history,  that  when  nations  resolve  to  be  peaceful 
with  respect  to  their  neighbours,  they  begin  to  be 
vicious  with  respect  to  themselves.  But  to  return  to 
the  travellers. 

On  the  14th  of  December  they  hired  a  boat  with 
fourteen  men  and  ten  oars,  and  sailed  to  Salona ; 
thence  they  proceeded  to  Crisso,  and  rode  on  to 
Delphi,  ascending  the  mountain  on  horseback,  by  a 
steep,  craggy  path  towards  the  north-east.  After 
scaling  the  side  of  Parnassus  for  about  an  hour, 
they  saw  vast  masses  of  rock,  and  fragments  of 
stone,  piled  in  a  perilous  manner  above  them,  with 
niches  and  sepulchres,  and  relics,  and  remains  on  all 
sides. 

They  visited  and  drank  of  Castalia,  and  the  pro- 
phetic font,  Cassotis ;  but  still,  like  every  other  tra- 
veller, they  were  disappointed.  Parnassus  is  an 
emblem  of  the  fortune  that  attends  the  votaries  of 
the  muses,  harsh,  rugged,  and  barren.  The  woods 
that  once  waved  on  Delplii's  steep,  have  all  passed 
away,  and  may  now  be  sought  in  vain. 

A  few  traces  of  terraces  may  yet  be  discovered — 
here  and  there  the  chump  of  a  column,  and  niches 
for  receiving  votive  offeiings  are  numerous  among 
the  cliffs,  but  it  is  a  lone  and  dismal  place ;  Desola- 
tion sits  with  Silence,  and  Ruin  there  is  so  decayed 
as  to  be  almost  Oblivion. 

Parnassus  is  not  so  much  a  single  mountain  as 
the  loftiest  of  a  range ;  the  cloven  summit  appears 


%. 


IfcJWO"  '9'0rrw;'^}7m^if^r^-7ipi^-  , 


LORD  BYRON* 


107 


most  conspicuous  when  seen  from  the  south.  The 
northern  view  is,  however,  more  remarkable,  for  the 
cleft  is  less  distinguishable,  and  seven  lower  peaks 
suggest,  in  contemplation  with  the  summits,  the 
fancjr  of  so  many  seats  of  the  muses.  These  peaks, 
nine  in  all,  are  the  first  of  the  hills  which  receive  the 
rising  sun,  and  the  last  that  in  the  evening  part  with 
his  light. 

From  Delphi  the  travellers  proceeded  towards  Li- 
vadia,  passing  in  the  course  of  the  journey,  the  con- 
fluence of  the  three  roads  where  GEdipus  slew  his 
father,  an  event  with  its  hideous  train  of  fatalities 
which  could  not  be  recollected  by  Byron  on  the 
spot,  even  after  the  tales  of  guilt  he  had  gathered 
in  his  Albanian  journeys,  without  agitating  associa- 
tions. 

At  Livadia  they  remained  the  greater  part  of 
three  days,  during  which  they  examined  with  more 
than  ordinary  minuteness,  the  cave  of  Trophonius, 
and  the  streams  of  the  Hercyna,  composed  of  the 
mingled  waters  of  the  two  fountains  of  Oblivion  and 
Memory. 

From  Livadia,  after  visiting  the  battle-field  of 
Chaeronea  (the  birthplace  of  Plutarch),  and  also 
many  of  the  almost  innumerable  storied  and  conse- 
crated spots  in  the  neighbourhood,  the  travellers 
groceeded  to  Thebes — a  poor  town,  containing  about 
ve  hundred  wooden  houses,  with  two  shabby 
mosques  and  four  humble  churches.  The  only 
thing  worthy  of  notice  in  it  is  a  public  clock,  to 
which  the  inhabitants  direct  the  attention  of  stran- 
gers as  proudly  as  if  it  were  indeed  one  of  the  won- 
ders of  the  world.  There  they  still  affect  to  show 
the  fountain  of  Dirce  and  the  ruins  of  the  house  of 
Pindar.  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  describe  the  number- 
less relics  of  the  famous  things  of  Greece,  which  every 
hour,  as  they  approached  towards  Athens,  lay  more 
and  more  in  their  way.  Not  that  many  remarkable 
objects  met  their  view ;  yet  fragments  of  antiquity 


> 


H.r 


108 


THE   LIFE    OF 


were  often  seen  though  many  of  them  were  proba* 
bly  brought  far  from  the  edifices  to  which  they  had 
originally  belonged :  not  for  their  beauty,  or  on  ac- 
count of  the  veneration  which  the  sight  of  them  in- 
spired, but  because  they  would  bum  into  better  lime 
than  the  coarser  rock  of  the  hills.  Nevertheless, 
abased  and  returned  into  rudeness  as  all  things  were, 
the  presence  of  Greece  was  felt,  and  Byron  could 
not  resist  the  inspirations  of  her  genius. 


Fair  Greece !  sad  relic  ordepnrted  worth ! 
Immortal  I  though  no  more ;  though  fallen,  great ; 
Who  now  shall  lead  thy  scatter'd  children  forth 
And  long-accustom'd  bondage  uncreate  ? 
Not  such  thy  sons  who  whilom  did  await, 
The  hopeless  warriors  of  a  willing  doom, 
In  bleak  Therm  >pyl!B's  sepulchral  strait : 
Oh !  who  that  gallant  spirit  shall  resume, 
Leap  from  Eurotas'  banks,  and  call  thee  from  the  tomb ! 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon  of  the  day  after 
they  had  left  Thebes,  in  attaining  the  summit  of  a 
mountain  over  which  their  road  lay,  the  travellers 
beheld  Athens  at  a  distance,  rising  loftily,  crowned 
with  the  Acropolis  in  the  midst  of  the  plain,  the  sea 
beyond,  and  the  misty  hills  of  Egina  blue  in  the 
distance. 

On  a  rugged  rock  rising  abruptly  on  the  right, 
near  to  the  spot  where  this  interesting  vista  first 
opened,  they  beheld  the  remains  of  the  ancient 
walls  of  Phyle,  a  fortress  which  commanded  one 
of  the  passes  from  Bceotia  into  Attica,  and  famous 
as  the  retreat  of  the  chief  patriots  concerned  in  de- 
stroying the  thirty  tyrants  of  Athens. 

Spirit  of  freedom !  when  on  Phyle's  brow 
Thou  sat'st  with  Thrasybulus  and  his  train, 
Couldst  thou  forebode  the  dismal  hour  which  now 
(  Dims  the  green  beauties  of  thine  Attic  plain? 

Not  thirty  tyrants  now  enforce  the  chain, 
But  every  carle  can  lord  it  o'er  thy  land; 
Nor  rise  thy  sons,  but  idly  rail  in  vain. 
Trembling  beneath  the  Koorge  of  Turkish  hand, 
From  birth  till  death  ensIaveO ;  in  word,  hi  deed  unmannM. 


LORD  BYRON* 


109 


Such  was  the  condition  in  which  the  poet  found  the 
coiintrv  as  he  approached  Athens;  ana  although  the 
spirit  he  invoked  has  reanimated  the  dejected  race 
he  then  beheld  around  him,  the  traveller  who  even 
now  revisits  the  country,  will  still  look  in  vain  for 
that  lofty  mien  which  characterizes  the  children  of 
liberty.  The  fetters  of  the  Greeks  have  been  struck 
off,  but  the  blains  and  excoriated  marks  of  slavery 
are  still  conspicuous  upon  them ;  the  sinister  eye, 
the  fawning  voice,  the  skulking,  crouching,  base 
demeanour,  time  and  many  conflicts  only  can  efface. 

The  first  view  of  the  city  was  fleeting  and  unsa- 
tisfactory; as  the  travellers  descended  from  the 
mountains  the  windings  of  the  road  among  the  hills 
shut  it  out.  Having  passed  the  villae^e  of  Casha, 
they  at  last  entered  upon  the  slope,  and  thence  into 
the  plain  of  Attica :  but  the  intervening  heights  and 
trees  kept  the  town  concealed,  till  a  turn  of  the  path 
brought  it  full  again  before  them;  the  Acropolis 
crowned  with  the  ruins  of  the  Parthenon— the  Mu- 
seum hill — and  the  Monument  of  Philopappus — 

Ancient  of  Days— angnst  Athena !  where, 
Where  are  thy  men  of  might  f  thy  grand  in  soul  7 
Gone—glimmering  through  the  dreamaof  things  that  were s 
First  in  the  race  that  led  to  glory's  goal, 
They  won,  and  pass'd  away :— Ih  tlUs  the  whole  7 
J      A  schoolboy's  tale,  the  wonder  of  an  hoar ! 
The  warrior's  weapon,  and  the  sophist's  stole 
Are  sought  in  vain,  and  o'er  each  mouldering  toiter, 
V     Dim  with  the  mist  of  years,  gray  flits  th«  shaas  of  p»war« 

K 


#< 

> 


i!: 
"    i 


r 
i 


■    I, 


>i^,       1 


.«f 


'  '^'. 


no 


THE   LIFE    or 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


:i 


Athens— Ifyron's  Character  of  the  modem  Athenians — Visit  to  EleiuU 
— Visit  to  the  Caverns  at  Vary  and  Keratca—Lost  in  the  Labyrinths 
of  the  latter. 

It  has  been  justly  remarked,  that  were  there  no 
other  vestiges  of  the  ancient  world  in  existence  than 
those  to  be  seen  at  Athens,  they  are  still  sufficient 
of  themselves  to  justify  the  admiration  entertained 
for  the  genius  of  Greece.  It  is  not,  however,  so 
much  on  account  of  their  magnificence  as  of  tlieir 
exquisite  beauty,  that  the  fragments  obtain  such 
idolatrous  homage  from  the  pilgrims  to  the  shattered 
shrines  of  antiquity.  But  Lord  Byron  had  no  feeling 
for  art,  perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  he 
affected  none:  still,  Athens  was  to  him  a  text,  a 
theme;  and  when  the  first  rush  of  curiosity  has 
been  satisfied,  where  else  can  the  palled  fancy  find 
such  a  topic. 

To  the  mere  antiquary,  this  celebrated  city  can- 
not but  long  continue  interesting,  and  to  the  classic 
enthusiast,  just  liberated  from  the  cloisters  of  his 
college,  the  scenery  and  the  ruins  may  for  a  season 
inspire  delight.  Philosophy  may  there  point  her 
moral  apophthegms  with  stronger  emphasis,  virtue 
receive  new  incitements  to  perseverance,  by  reflect- 
ing on  the  honour  which  still  attends  the  memory 
of  the  ancient  great,  and  patriotism  there  more  pa- 
thetically deplore  the  inevitable  effects  of  individual 
corruption  on  public  glory;  but  to  the  man  who 
seeks  a  solace  from  misfortune,  or  is  "  aweary  of 
the  sun ;"  how  wretched,  how  solitary,  how  empty 
is  Athens ! 

Yet  to  the  romnants  of  thy  splendour  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  penaive,  but  unwearied  throng; 


m 


LORD    BYRON.  Ill 

Lonir  shall  the  vuyager,  with  th'  Ionian  blast, 
Hal'  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  ofHong ; 
Lon^  shall  thy  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fhme  the  youth  or  many  a  shore; 
Boast  or  the  aged!  lesson  or  the  young  ! 
AVhlch  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore, 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awAil  lore ! 

Of  the  existing  race  of  Athenians  Byron  has  ob- 
served, that  they  are  remarkable  for  their  cunning : 
•*  Among  the  various  foreigners  resident  in  Athens 
there  was  never  a  difference  of  opinion  in  their  esti- 
mate of  the  Greek  character,  though  on  all  other 
topics  they  disputed  with  great  acrimony.  M.  Fau- 
vel,  the  French  consul,  who  has  passed  thirty  years 
at  Athens,  frequently  declared  in  my  hearing,  that 
the  Greeks  do  not  deserve  to  be  emancipated,  rea- 
soning on  the  ground  of  their  national  and  individual 
depravity — while  he  forgot  that  such  depravity  is  to 
be  attributed  to  causes  which  can  only  be  removed 
by  the  measures  he  reprobates. 

**  M.  Roque,  a  French  merchant  of  respectability, 
long  settled  in  Athens,  asserted  with  the  most 
amusing  gravity,  *  Sir,  they  are  the  same  canaille 
that  existed  in  the  days  of  Themistocles.'  The 
ancients  banished  Themistocles ;  the  moderns  cheat 
Monsieur  Roque:  thus  great  men  have  ever  been 
treated ! 

"  In  short,  all  the  Franks  who  are  fixtures,  and 
most  of  the  Englishmen,  Germans,  Danes,  &c.,  of 
passage,  came  over  by  degrees  to  their  opinion,  on 
much  the  same  grounds  that  a  Turk  in  England 
would  condemn  the  nation  by  wholesale,  because  he 
was  wronged  by  his  lackey  and  overcharged  by  his 
washerwoman.  Certainly,  it  was  not  a  little  stag- 
gering when  the  Sieurs  Fauvel  and  Lusieri,  the  two 
greatest  demagogues  of  the  day,  who  divide  betwen 
them  the  power  of  Pericles  and  the  popularity  of 
Cleon,  and  puzzle  the  poor  Waywode  with  perpetual 
differences,  agreed  in  the  utter  condemnalion  of  the 


^#- 


it;-.;'' 


1  i 


livc-^'- 


h  if  :■ 


<4Bii 


11 


:» 


112 


THE  LIFB  OF 


Greeks  in  general,  and  of  the  Athenians  in  par- 
ticular." 

I  have  quoted  his  Lordship  thus  particularly  be- 
cause after  his  arrival  at  Athens  he  laid  down  his 
Een.  Childe  Harold  there  disappears.  Whether  he 
ad  written  the  pilgrimage  up  to  that  point  at  Athens 
1  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain;  while  I  am  inclined 
to  think  it  was  so,  as  I  recollect  he  told  me  there 
that  he  had  then  described  or  was  describing  the 
reception  he  had  met  with  at  Tepellene  from  Ali 
Pashaw. 

After  having  halted  some  time  at  Athens,  where 
they  established  their  head-quarters,  the  travellers, 
when  they  had  inspected  the  principal  antiquities  of 
the  city  (those  things  which  all  travellers  must  visit), 
made  several  excursions  into  the  environs,  and 
among  other  places  went  to  Eleusis. 

On  the  13th  of  January  they  mounted  earlier 
than  usual,  and  set  out  on  that  road  which  has  the 
site  of  the  Academy  and  the  Colonos,  the  retreat  of 
(Edipus  during  his  banishment,  a  little  to  the  right ; 
they  then  entered  the  Olive  Groves,  crossed  the  Ce- 
phessus,  and  came  to  an  open,  well-cultivated  plain, 
extending  on  the  left  to  the  Piraeus  and  the  sea. 
Having  ascended  by  a  gentle  acclivity  through  a 
pass,  at  the  distance  of  eight  or  ten  miles  from 
Athens,  the  ancient  Corydallus,  now  called  Daphnd- 
rouni,  they  came,  at  the  bottom  of  a  piny  mountain, 
to  the  little  monastery  of  Daphne,  the  appearance 
and  situation  of  which  are  in  agieeable  unison. 
The  monastery  was  then  fast  verging  into  that 
state  of  the  uninhabitable  picturesque  so  much  ad- 
mired by  young  damsels  and  artists  of  a  romantic 
vein.  The  pines  on  the  adjacent  mountains  hiss  as 
they  ever  wave  their  boughs,  and  somehow,  such  is 
the  lonely  aspect  of  the  place,  that  their  hissing  may 
be  imagined  to  breathe  satire  against  the  pretensions 
of  human  vanity. 

After  passing  through  the  hollow  valley  in  which 


LORD   BYRON. 


lid 


this  monastic  habitation  is  situated,  the  road  sharply 
turns  round  an  elbow  of  the  /nonntain,  and  the 
Eleusinian  plain  opens  iniincdiatrly  in  front.  It  is, 
however,  for  a  plain,  but  of  small  dimensions.  On 
the  left  is  the  island  of  oulamis,  and  the  straits 
where  the  battle  was  fouffht;  hut  neitlier  of  it  nor 
of  the  mysteries  for  whirh  the  temple  of  Ceres  was 
for  so  many  ages  celebrated,  has  the  poet  given  us 
description  or  suggestion ;  and  yet  few  topics  among 
all  his  wild  and  wonderful  subjects,  were  so  likely 
to  have  furnished  such  "  ample  room,  and  verge 
enough"  to  his  fancy. 

The  next  excursion  in  any  degree  interesting,  if 
a  qualification  of  that  kind  can  be  applied  to  excur- 
sions, in  Attica,  was  to  Cape  Colonna.  Crossing 
the  bed  of  the  Ilissus  and  keeping  nearer  to  Mount 
Hymettus,  the  travellers  arrived  at  Vary,  a  farm 
belonging  to  the  monastery  of  Agios  Asomatos,  and 
under  the  charge  of  a  caloyer.  Here  ihey  stopped 
for  the  night,  and  being  furnished  with  lights,  and 
attended  by  the  caloyer's  servant  as  a  guide,  they 
proceeded  to  inspect  the  Paneum,  or  sculptured 
cavern  in  that  neighbourhood,  into  which  they  de- 
scended. Having  satisfied  their  curiosity  there, 
they  proceeded,  in  the  morning,  to  Keratea,  a  small 
town  containing  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  houses, 
chiefly  inhabited  by  rural  Albanians. 

The  wetness  of  the  weather  obliged  them  to  re- 
main several  days  at  Keratea,  during  which  they 
took  the  opportunity  of  a  few  hours  of  sunshine,  to 
ascend  the  mountain  of  Parne  in  quest  of  a  cave  of 
which  many  wonderful  things  were  reported  in  the 
country.  Having  found  the  entrance,  kindled  their 
pine  torches,  and  taken  a  supply  of  strips  of  the 
same  wood,  they  let  themselves  down  through  a 
narrow  aperture ;  creeping  still  farther  down,  they 
came  into  what  seemed  a  large  subterranean  hall, 
arched  as  it  were  with  high  cupolas  of  crystal,  and 
divided  into  long  aisles  by  columns  of  glittering 

Ka 


■;..  si 


114 


THE   LIFE   Ot 


6par,  in  some  parts  spread  into  wide  horizontal 
chambers,  in  others  terminated  by  the  dark  mouths 
of  deep  and  steep  abysses  receding  into  the  interior 
of  the  mountain. 

The  travellers  wandered  from  one  ffrotto  to  an- 
other until  they  came  to  a  fountain  of  pure  water, 
by  the  side  of  which  they  lingered  some  time,  till, 
observing  that  their  torches  were  wasting,  they  re- 
solved to  return ;  but  after  exploring  the  labyrinth 
for  a  few  minutes,  they  found  themselves  again 
close  beside  this  mysterious  spring.  It  was  not 
without  reason  they  then  became  alarmed,  for  the 
guide  confessed  with  trepidation  that  he  had  forgot- 
ten the  intricacies  of  the  cave,  and  knew  not  how  to 
recover  the  outlet. 

Byron  often  described  this  adventure  with  spirit 
and  humour.  Magnifying  both  his  own  and  his 
friend's  terrors ;  and  though  of  course  there  was 
caricature  in  both,  yet  the  distinction  was  charac- 
teristic. Mr.  Hobhouse,  being  of  a  more  solid  dis- 
position naturally,  cculd  discern  nothing  but  a  grave 
cause  for  dread  in  being  thus  lost  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth ;  Byron,  however,  described  his  own  anx- 
iety as  a  species  of  excitement  and  titillation  which 
moved  him  to  laughter.  Their  escape  from  starva- 
tion and  being  buried  alive  was  truly  providential. 

While  roaming  in  a  state  of  despair  from  cave  to 
cell ;  climbing  up  narrow  apertures ;  their  last  pine- 
torch  fast  consuming ;  totally  ignorant  of  their  posi- 
tion, and  all  around  darkness,  they  discovered,  as  it 
were  by  accident,  a  ray  of  light  gleaming  towards 
them ;  they  hastened  towards  it,  and  arrived  at  the 
mouth  of  the  cave. 

Altliough  the  poet  has  not  made  any  use  of  this 
incident  in  description,  the  actual  experience  which 
it  gave  him  of  what  despair  is,  could  not  but  enrich 
his  metaphysical  store,  and  increase  his  knowledge 
of  terrible  feelings;  of  the  workings  of  the  darkest 
2ind  dreadest  anticipations — slow  famishing  death— 
luijiiiibalism^^and  the  rage  of  self-devouring  hunger 


'I     !i. 


LORD  BYRON. 


115 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Proceed  from,  Keratia  to  Cape  Colonna — Associations  connected  urith 
the  Spot— Second-hearing  of  the  Albanians— Journey  to  Marathon 
— ^ect  of  his  Jidventures  on  the  Mind  of  the  Poet — Return  to  Athena 
— I  join  the  Travellers  tkere^Maid  of  Athens. 

From  Kerat^a  the  travellers  proceeded  to  Cape 
Colonna,  by  the  way  of  Katapheke.  The  road  was 
wild  and  rude,  but  the  distant  view  of  the  ruins  of 
the  temple  of  Minerva,  standing  on  the  loneliness  of 
the  promontory,  would  have  repaid  them  for  the 
trouble,  had  the  road  been  even  rougher. 

This  once  elegant  edifice  was  of  the  Doric  order, 
an  hexastyle,  the  columns  twenty-seven  feet  in 
height.  It  was  built  entirely  of  white  marble,  and 
esteemed  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  architecture. 
The  rocks  on  which  the  remains  stand,  are  cele- 
brated alike  by  the  English  and  the  Grecian  muses ; 
for  it  was  amid  them  that  Falconer  laid  the  scene 
of  his  Shipwreck ;  and  the  unequalled  description 
of  the  climate  of  Greece,  in  the  Giaour,  was  proba- 
bly inspired  there,  although  the  poem  was  written  in 
London.  It  was  also  here,  but  not  on  this  occasion, 
that  the  poet  first  became  acquainted  with  the  Alba- 
nian belief  in  second-hearing,  to  which  he  alludes 
in  the  same  poem : 

Deep  in  whose  darkly-boding  ear, 
The  death-shot  peal'd  of  murder  near. 

"  This  superstition  of  a  second-hearing,"  says 
Lord  Byron,  **  fell  once  under  my  own  observation. 
On  my  third  journey  to  Cape  Colonna,  as  we  passed 
through  the  defile  that  leads  from  the  hamlet  be- 
tween Keratea  and  Colonna,  I  observed  Dervish  Ta- 
hiri  (one  of  his  Albanian  servants)  riding  rather  out 


I  ,■■ 


•viMi 


116 


THE   LIFE   OF 


■  %' 


I, 


of  the  path,  and  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand  as 
if  in  pain.  I  rode  up  nnd  inquired.  *  We  are  in 
peril !'  he  answered.  *  What  peril  ?  we  are  not  now 
in  Albania,  nor  in  the  passes  to  Ephesus,  Misso- 
longhi,  or  Lepanto ;  there  are  plenty  of  us  well 
armed,  and  the  Choriotes  have  not  courage  to  be 
thieves.'  *  True,  Affendi ;  but,  nevertheless,  the  shot 
is  ringing  in  my  ears.'  *  The  shot !  not  a  tophaike 
has  been  fired  this  morning.'  *  I  hear  it,  notwith- 
standing— ^bom — bom — as  plainly  as  I  hear  your 
voice' — *  Ba.'  *  As  you  please,  Affendi ;  if  it  is  writ- 
ten, so  will  it  be.' 

*'  I  left  this  quick-eared  predestinarian,  and  rode 
up  to  Basili,  his  Christian  compatriot,  whose  ears, 
though  not  at  all  prophetic,  by  no  means  relished  the 
intelligence.  We  all  arrived  at  Colonna,  remained 
some  hours,  and  returned  leisurely,  saying  a  variety 
of  brilliant  things,  in  more  languages  than  spoiled 
the  building  of  Babel,  upon  the  mistaken  seer ;  Ro- 
maic, Arnaout,  Turkish,  Italian,  and  English  were 
all  exercised,  in  various  conceits,  upon  the  unfortu- 
nate Mussulman.  While  we  were  contemplating  the 
beautiful  prospect,  Dervish  was  occupied  about  the 
columns.  I  thought  he  was  deranged  into  an  anti- 
quarian, and  asked  him  if  he  had  become  a  palao- 
castro  man.  *  No,'  said  he,  *  but  these  pillars  will 
be  useful  in  making  a  stand ;'  and  added  some  re- 
marks, which  at  least  evinced  his  own  belief  in  his 
troublesome  faculty  of  forehearing. 

"  On  our  return  to  Athens  we  heard  from  Leone 
(a  prisoner  set  on  shore  some  days  after)  of  the  in- 
tended attack  of  the  Mainotes,  with  the  cause  of  its 
not  taking  place.  I  was  at  some  pains  to  question 
the  man,  and  he  described  the  dresses,  arms,  aivl 
marks  of  the  horses  of  our  party,  so  accurately,  that, 
with  other  circumstances,  we  could  not  doubt  of  his 
having  been  in  *  villanous  company,'  and  ourselves 
in  a  bad  neighbourhood.  Dervish  became  a  sooth- 
sayer for  life,  and  I  dare  say,  is  now  hearing  more 


LORD   BYRON. 


117 


musketry  than  ever  will  be  fired  to  the  great  refresh- 
ment of  the  Arnaouts  of  Berat  and  his  native  moun- 
tains. 

"  In  all  Attica,  if  we  except  Athens  itself,  and  Ma- 
rathon," Byron  remarks,  "there  is  no  scene  more 
interesting  than  Cape  Colonna.  To  the  antiquary 
and  artist,  sixteen  columns  are  an  inexhaustible 
source  of  observation  and  design ;  to  the  philosopher 
the  supposed  scene  of  some  of  Plato's  conversations 
will  not  be  unwelcome ;  and  the  traveller  will  be 
struck  with  the  prospect  over  *  Isles  that  crown  the 
iEgean  deep.'  But,  for  an  Englishman,  Colonna  has 
yet  an  additional  interest  in  being  the  actual  spot  of 
Falconer's  Shipwreck.  Pallas  and  Plato  are  forgot- 
ten in  the  recollection  of  Falconer  and  Campbell. 


"  There,  in  the  dead  of  night,  by  Donna's  Rteep^ 
The  seamen's  cry  was  heard  along  the  deep.** 

From  the  ruins  of  the  temple  the  travellers  returned 
to  Kerat6a,  by  the  eastern  coast  of  Attica,  passing 
through  that  district  of  country  where  the  silver  mines 
are  situated ;  which,  according  to  Sir  George  Wheler, 
were  worked  with  some  success  about  a  hundred  and 
fifty  years  ago.  They  then  set  out  for  Marathon, 
taking  Rapthi  in  their  way;  where,  in  the  lesser  port, 
on  a  steep  rocky  island,  they  beheld,  from  a  distance, 
the  remains  of  a  colossal  statue.  They  did  not,  how- 
ever, actually  inspect  it,  but  it  has  been  visited  by 
other  travellers,  who  have  described  it  to  be  of  white 
marble,  sedent  on  a  pedestal.  The  head  and  arms  are 
broken  off;  but  when  entire,  it  is  conjectured  to  have 
been  twelve  feet  in  height.  As  they  were  passing 
round  the  shore  they  heard  the  barking  of  dogs,  and 
a  shout  from  a  shepherd,  and  on  looking  round  saw 
a  large  dun-coloured  wolf,  galloping  slowly  through 
the  bushes. 

Such  incidents  and  circumstances,  in  the  midst  of 
the  most  romantic  scenery  of  the  world,  with  wild 


['.f 


>fe.. 


118 


THE   LIFE   OF 


m 


mM 


and  lawless  companions,  and  a  constant  sense  of 
danger,  were  full  of  poetry,  and  undoubtedly  con- 
tributed to  the  formation  of  the  peculiar  taste  of 
Byron's  genius.  As  it  has  been  said  of  Salvator  Rosa, 
the  painter,  that  he  derived  the  characteristic  savage 
force  of  his  pencil  from  his  youthful  adventures  with 
banditti ;  it  may  be  added  of  Byron,  that  mucli  of  his 
most  distinguished  power  was  the  result  of  his  ad- 
ventures as  a  traveller  in  Greece.  His  mind  and 
memory  were  filled  with  stores  of  the  fittest  imagery, 
to  supply  becoming  backgrounds  and  appendages,  to 
the  characters  and  enterprises  which  he  afterward 
depicted  with  such  truth  of  nature  and  poetical  effect. 

After  leaving  Rapthi,  keeping  Mount  Pentilicus 
on  the  left,  the  travellers  came  in  sight  of  the  ever- 
celebrated  Plain  of  Marathon.  The  evening  being 
advancjed,  they  passed  the  barrow  of  the  Athenian 
slain  urmoticed,  but  next  morning  they  examined  mi- 
nutely the  field  of  battle,  and  fancied  they  had  made 
antiquarian  discoveries.  In  their  return  to  Athens 
they  inspected  the  different  objects  of  research  and 
fragments  of  antiquity,  which  still  attract  travellers, 
and  with  the  help  of  Chandler  and  Pausanias,  endea- 
voured to  determine  the  local  habitation  and  the  name 
of  many  things,  of  which  the  traditions  have  perished 
and  the  forms  have  relapsed  into  rock. 

Soon  after  their  arrival  at  Athens,  Mr.  Hobhouse 
left  Lord  Byron,  to  visit  the  Negropont,  where  he  was 
absent  some  few  days.  I  think  he  had  only  been  back 
three  or  four,  when  I  arrived  from  Zante.  My  visit  to 
Athens  at  that  period  was  accidental.  I  had  left  Malta 
with  the  intention  of  proceeding  to  Candia,  by  Specia, 
and  Idra ;  but  a  dreadful  storm  drove  us  up  the  Adriatic, 
as  far  as  Valona ;  and  in  returning,  being  becalmed 
oflf  the  island  of  Zante,  I  landed  there,  and  allowed 
the  ship,  with  my  luggage,  to  proceed  to  her  desti- 
nation, having  been  advised  to  go  on  by  the  Gulf  of 
Corinth  to  Athens ;  from  which,  I  was  informed,  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  recovering  my  trunks. 


f 


LORD   BYRON. 


119 


In  carrying  this  arrangement  into  effect,  I  was  in- 
duced to  go  aside  from  the  direct  route,  and  to  visit 
Velhi  Pashaw,  at  Tripolizza,  to  wliom  I  had  letters. 
Returning  by  Argos  and  Corinth,  I  crossed  the  isth- 
mus, and  taking  the  road  by  Megara,  reached  Athens 
on  the  20th  of  February.  In  the  course  of  this  jour- 
ney, I  heard  of  two  English  travellers  being  in  the  city ; 
and  on  reaching  the  convent  of  the  Propaganda,  where 
I  had  been  advised  to  take  up  my  lodgings,  the  friar 
in  charge  of  the  house  informed  me  of  their  names. 
Next  morning,  Mr.  Hobhouse,  having  heard  of  my 
arrival,  kindly  called  on  me,  and  I  accompanied  him 
to  Lord  Byron,  who  then  lodged  with  the  widow  of 
a  Greek,  who  had  been  British  Consul.  She  was,  1 
believe,  a  respectable  person,  with  several  daughters; 
one  of  whom  has  been  rendered  more  famous  by  his 
Lordship's  verses,  t^ian  her  degiee  of  beauty  deserved. 
She  was  a  pale  and  pensive-looking  girl,  with  regular 
Grecian  features.  Whether  he  really  cherished  any 
sincere  attachment  to  her  I  much  doubt.  I  believe 
his  passion  was  equally  innocent  and  poetical,  though 
he  spoke  of  buying  her  from  her  mother.  It  was  to 
this  damsel  that  he  addressed  the  stanzas  beginning, 


''V 


Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  i>art, 
Give,  oh  I  give  me  back  my  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


Occupation  at.  Athens — Mmint  Pentilicus — We  descend  into  the  Ca 
verny — Return  tn  Athens — A  Greek  Contract  of  Marriage — Varioua 
Athenian  and  Albanian  Superstitions — Effect  of  their  Impression 
on  the  Genius  of  the  Poet. 

During  his  residence  at  Athens,  Lord  Byron  made 
almost  daily  excursions  on  horseback,  chiefly  for  ex- 
ercise and  to  see  the  localities  of  celebrated  spots. 


,w    i;:l 


■«iiai 


120 


THE   LITE   OF 


He  affected  to  have  no  taste  for  the  arts,  andheceT- 
tainly  took  but  little  pleasure  in  the  examination  of 
the  ruins. 

The  marble  quarry  of  Mount  Pentilicus,  from  which 
the  materials  for  the  temples  and  principal  edifices  of 
Athens  are  supposed  to  have  been  brought,  was,  in 
those  days,  one  of  the  regular  staple  curiosities  of 
Greece.  This  quarry  is  a  vast  excavation  in  the  side 
of  the  hill ;  a  drapery  of  woodbine  hangs  like  the 
festoons  of  a  curtain  over  the  entrance;  the  effect  of 
which,  seen  from  the  outside,  is  really  worth  looking 
at,  but  not  worth  the  trouble  of  riding  three  hours 
over  a  road  of  rude  and  rough  fragments  to  see :  the 
interior  is  like  that  of  any  other  cavern.  To  this 
place  I  one  day  was  induced  to  accompany  the  two 
travellers. 

We  halted  at  a  monastery  close  by  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  where  we  procured  a  guide,  and  ate  a  repast 
of  olives  and  fried  eggs.  Dr.  Chandler  says,  that 
the  monks,  or  caloyers,  of  this  convent,  are  sum- 
moned to  prayers  by  a  tune  which  is  played  on 
a  piece  of  an  iron  hoop ;  and,  on  the  outside  of  the 
church,  we  certainly  saw  apiece  of  crooked  iron  sus- 
pended. When  struck,  it  uttered  a  bell-like  sound, 
by  which  the  hour  of  prayer  was  announced.  What 
sort  of  tune  could  be  played  on  such  an  instrmnent 
the  doctor  has  judiciously  left  his  readers  to  ima- 
gincr 

When  we  reached  the  mouth  of  the  grotto,  by 
that  "  very  bad  track"  which  the  learned  personage 
above  mentioned  clambered  up,  we  saw  the  ruins  of 
the  building  which  the  doctor  at  first  thought  had 
been  possibly  a  hermit's  cell ;  but  which,  upon  more 
deliberate  reflection,  he  became  of  opinion  "was 
designed,  perhaps,  for  a  sentinel  to  look  out,  and  re- 
gulate, by  signals,  the  approach  of  the  men  and  teams 
employed  in  carrying  marble  to  the  city."  This, 
we  agreed,  was  a  very  sagacious  conjecture.  It 
was,  indeed,  highly  probable  that  sentinels  were 


\S 


]^<\t 


LORD  BYRON. 


121 


* 


m 


),  by 
[iiage 
lis  of 
had 
lore 
I' was 
Id  re- 
teams 
rrhis, 
It 
Iwere 


appointed  to  regulate,  by  signals,  the  manoeuvres  of 
carts  coming  to  fetch  away  stones. 

Having  looked  at  the  outside  of  the  quarry,  and 
the  guide  having  lighted  candles,  we  entered  into  the 
interior,  and  beheld  on  all  sides  what  Dr.  Chandler 
saw,  "  chippings  of  marble."  We  then  descended, 
consecutively,  into  a  hole,  just  wide  enough  to  let  a 
man  pass ;  and  when  we  had  descended  far  enough, 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  cell,  or  cave ;  it  might  be 
some  ten  or  twelve  feet  square.  Here  we  stopped, 
and.  like  many  others  who  had  been  there  before  us, 
attempted  to  engrave  our  names,  mine  was  without 
success;  Lord  Byron's  was  not  much  better;  but 
Mr.  Hobhouse  was  making  some  progress  to  immor- 
tality, when  the  blade  of  his  knife  snapped,  or  shut- 
ting suddenly,  cut  his  finger.  These  attempts 
having  failed,  we  inscribed  our  initials  on  the  ceiling 
with  the  smoke  of  our  candles.  After  accomplish- 
ing this  notable  feat,  we  got  as  well  out  of  the 
scrape  as  we  could,  and  returned  to  Athens  by  the 
village  of  Callandris.  In  the  evening,  after  dinner, 
as  there  happened  to  be  a  contract  of  marriage  per- 
forming in  the  neighbourhood,  we  v;ent  to  see  the 
ceremony. 

Between  the  contract  and  espousal  two  years  are 
generally  permitted  to  elapse  among  the  Greel(  3 ;  in 
the  course  of  wliich  the  bride,  according  to  the  cir- 
cumstances of  her  relations,  prepares  domestic  chat- 
tels for  her  future  family.  The  affections  are  rarely 
consulted  on  either  side,  for  the  mother  of  the  bride- 
groom commonly  arranges  the  match  for  her  son. 
In  this  case,  the  choice  had  been  evidently  made  ac- 
cording to  the  principle  on  which  Mrs.  Primiose 
chose  her  wedding  gown ;  viz.  for  the  qualities  that 
would  wear  well.  For  the  bride  was  a  stout  house- 
hold quean ;  her  face  painted  with  vermilion,  and  her 
person  arrayed  in  uncouth  embroidered  garments. 
Unfortunately,  we  were  disappointed  of  seeing  the 
ceremony,  as  it  was  over  before  we  arrived. 

L 


-? 


'*^'",i:^i' 


•1««M 


122 


THE   LIFE   OF 


I'    ..:' 


This  incident  led  me  to  inquire  particularly  into 
the  existing  usages  and  customs  of  the  Athenians ; 
and  I  find  in  the  notes  of  my  journal  of  the  evening 
of  that  day's  adventures,  a  memorandum  of  a  cu- 
rious practice  among  the  Athenian  maidens  when 
they  become  anxious  to  get  husbands.  On  the  first 
evening  of  the  new  moon,  they  put  a  little  honev,  a 
little  salt,  and  a  piece  of  bread  on  a  plate,  which  they 
leave  at  a  particular  spot  on  the  east  bank  of  the 
Uissus,  near  the  Stadium,  and  muttering  some  nn- 
(uent  words,  to  the  effect  that  Fate  may  send  them  a 
handsome  young  man,  return  home,  and  long  for  the 
fulfilment  of  the  charm.  On  mentioning  this  cir- 
cumstance to  the  travellers,  one  of  them  informed 
me,  that  above  tlie  spot  where  these  offerings  are 
made,  a  statue  of  Venus,  according  to  Pausanias, 
formerly  stood.  It  is,  therefore,  highly  probable 
that  what  is  now  a  superstitious,  was  anciently  a 
religious  rite. 

At  this  period  my  fellow-passengers  were  full  of 
their  adventures  in  Albania.  The  country  was  new, 
and  the  inhabitants  had  appeared  to  them  a  bold  and 
singular  race.  In  addition  to  the  characteristic  de- 
scriptions which  1  have  extracted  from  Lord  Byron's 
notes,  as  well  as  Mr.  Hobhouse's  travels,  I  am  in- 
debted to  them,  as  well  as  to  others,  for  a  number 
of  memoranda  obtained  in  conversation,  which  they 
have  themselves  neglected  to  reciord,  but  which  pro- 
bably became  unconsciously  mingled  with  the  re- 
collections of  both ;  at  least,  1  can  discern  traces  of 
them  in  different  parts  of  the  poet's  works. 

The  Albanians  are  a  race  of  mountaineers,  and  it 
has  been  often  remarked  that  mountaineers,  more 
than  any  other  people,  are  attaclied  to  their  native 
land,  while  no  other  have  so  strong  a  thirst  of  ad- 
venture. The  affection  whic^h  tliey  cherish  for  the 
scenes  of  their  youth  tends,  perhaps,  to  excite  their 
migratory  spirit.  For  the  motive  of  their  adventures 
is  to  procure  the  means  of  subsisting  in  ease  at  home. 


LORD    BYRON. 


123 


Tliis  migratory  humour  is  not,  however,  universal 
to  the  Albanians,  but  ap)plies  only  to  those  who  go 
in  quest  of  rural  employment,  and  who  are  found  in 
a  state  of  servitude  among  even  the  Greeks.  It  de- 
serves, however,  to  be  noticed,  that  with  the  Greeks 
they  rarely  ever  mix  or  intermarry,  and  that  they 
retain  both  their  own  national  dress  and  manners 
unchanged  among  them.  Several  of  their  customs 
are  singular.  It  is,  for  example,  in  vain  to  ask  a 
light  or  any  fire  from  the  houses  of  the  Albanians 
after  sunset,  if  the  husband  or  head  of  the  family 
be  still  afield ;  a  custom  in  which  there  is  more  of 
police  regulation  than  of  superstition,  as  it  interdicts 
a  plausible  pretext  for  entering  the  cottages  in  the 
obscurity  of  twilight,  when  the  women  are  defence- 
less by  the  absence  of  the  men. 

Some  of  their  usages,  with  respect  to  births,  bap- 
tisms, and  burials,  are  also  curious.  When  the 
mother  feels  the  fulness  of  time  at  hand,  the  priestess 
of  Lucina,  the  midwife,  is  duly  summoned,  and  she 
comes,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  tripod,  better  known 
as  a  three-legged  stool,  the  uses  of  which  are  only 
revealed  to  the  initiated.  She  is  received  by  the 
matronly  friends  of  the  mother,  and  begins  the 
mysteries  by  opening  every  lock  and  lid  in  the 
house.  During  this  ceremony  the  maiden  females 
are  excluded. 

The  rites  which  succeed  the  baptism  of  a  child 
are  still  more  recondite.  Four  or  five  day s>  after  the 
christening,  the  midwife  prepares,  with  her  own 
mystical  hands,  certain  savoury  messes,  spreads  a 
table,  and  places  them  on  it.  She  then  departs,  and 
all  the  family,  leaving  the  door  open,  in  silence  retire 
to  sleep.  This  table  is  covered  for  the  Miri  of  the 
child,  an  occult  being,  that  is  supposed  to  have  the 
care  of  its  destiny.  In  the  course  of  the  night,  if 
the  child  is  to  be  fortunate,  the  Miri  comes  and  par- 
takes of  the  feast,  generally  in  the  shape  of  a  cat ; 
but  if  the  Miri  do  not  come,  nor  taste  of  tlie  food, 


V  ■ 


1 


''i  i 


''-•      » 


124 


THE  LIFE  OF 


'  !ii 


i 


the  child  is  considered  to  have  been  doomed  to  mis- 
fortune and  miseiy ;  and  no  doubt  the  treatment  it 
afterward  receives  is  consonant  to  its  evil  predesti- 
nation. 

The  Albanians  have,  like  the  vulgar  of  all  coun- 
tries, a  species  of  hearth  or  household  superstitions, 
distinct  from  their  wild  and  imperfect  religion. 
They  imagine  that  mankind,  after  death,  become 
voorthoolakases,  and  often  pay  visits  to  their  friends 
and  foes  for  the  same  reasons,  and  in  the  same  wa^* 
that  our  own  country  ghosts  walk  abroad ;  and  their 
visiting  hour  is,  also,  midnight.  But  the  coUyvillory 
is  another  sort  of  personage.  He  delights  in  mis- 
chief and  pranks,  and  is,  besides,  a  lewd  and  foul 
spirit ;  and,  therefore,  very  properly  detested.  He 
is  let  loose  on  the  night  of  the  nativity,  with  license 
for  twelve  nights  to  plague  men's  wives ;  at  which 
time  some  one  of  the  family  must  keep  wakeful 
vigil  all  the  livelong  night,  beside  a  clear  and  cheerful 
fire,  otherwise  this  naughty  imp  would  pour  such  an 
aqueous  stream  on  the  hearth,  that  never  fire  could 
be  kindled  there  again. 

The  Albanians  are  also  pestered  w'uL  another 
species  of  malignant  creatures ;  men  and  women, 
whose  gifts  are  followed  by  misfortunes,  whose  eyes 
glimpse  evil,  and  by  whose  touch  the  most  prosperous 
affairs  are  blasted.  They  work  their  malicious  sorce- 
ries in  the  dark,  collect  herbs  of  baleful  influence ; 
by  the  help  of  which,  they  strike  their  enemies  with 
palsy,  and  cattle  with  distemper.  The  males  are 
called  maissi,  and  the  females  maissa — ^witches  and 
warlocks. 

Besides  these  curious  superstitious  peculiarities, 
they  have  among  them  persons  who  pretend  to  know 
the  character  of  approaching  events  by  hearing 
sounds  which  resemble  those  that  shall  accompany 
the  actual  occurrence.  Having,  however,  given 
Lord  Byron's  account  of  the  adventure  of  his  ser- 
vant Dervish,  at  Cape  Colonna,  it  is  imnecessary  to 


m^ 


LORD  BYRON. 


129 


be  more  particular  with  the  subject  here.  Indeed,  but 
for  the  great  impression  which  every  thing  about  the 
Albanians  made  on  the  mind  of  the  poet,  the  inser- 
tion of  these  memoranda  would  be  irrelevant.  They 
will,  however,  serve  to  elucidate  several  allusions, 
not  otherwise  very  clear,  in  those  poems  of  which 
the  scenes  are  laid  in  Greece;  and  tend,  in  some 
measure,  to  confirm  the  correctness  of  the  opinion, 
that  his  genius  is  much  more  indebted  to  facts  and 
actual  adventures,  than  to  the  force  of  his  imagina- 
tion. Many  things  regarded  in  his  most  original 
productions,  as  fancies  and  invention,  may  be  traced 
to  transactions  in  which  he  was  himself  a  spectator 
or  an  actor.  The  impress  of  experience  is  vivid 
upon  them  all. 


'■¥ 


.11    '  y. 


'''i 


CHAPTER  XX. 


Local  Pleasures — ByrcftCs  Grecian  Poems—His  Departure  from  Athens 
— Description  of  Evening  in  the  Corsair— The  Opening  of  the 
Giaour— State  of  Patriotic  Feeling  then  in  Greece— Smyrna — 
Change  in  Lord  Byron's  Manners. 

The  genii  that  preside  over  famous  places  have 
less  influence  on  the  imagination  than  on  the  me- 
mory. The  pleasures  enjoyed  on  the  spot  spring 
from  the  reminiscences  of  reading ;  and  the  subse- 
quent enjoyment  derived  from  having  visited  cele- 
brated scenes,  comes  again  from  the  remembrance 
of  objects  seen  there,  and  the  associations  connected 
with  them. 

A  residence  at  Athens,  day  after  dav,  is  but  little 
more  interesting  than  in  a  common  country-town : 
but  afterward,  in  reading  either  of  the  ancient  or  of 
the  modern  inhabitants,  it  is  surprising  to  find  how 
much  local  knowledge  the  memory  had  uncon- 

L2 


:# 


r 


,^ 


120 


THE   LIFE   09 


ficiously  acquired  on  the  spot,  arising  from  thef 
variety  of  objects  to  which  the  attention  had  been 
directed. 

The  best  of  all  Byron^s  works,  the  most  racy  and 
original,  are  undoubtedly  those  which  relate  to 
Greece ;  but  it  is  only  travellers  who  have  visited 
the  scenes  that  can  appreciate  them  properly.  In 
them  his  peculiar  style  and  faculty  is  most  eminent ; 
in  all  his  other  productions,  imitation,  even  mere 
translation  may  be  often  traced,  and  though,  without 
question,  every  thing  he  touched  became  transmuted 
into  something  more  beautiful  and  precious,  yet  he 
was  never  so  masterly  as  in  describing  the  scenery 
of  Greece,  and  Albanian  manners.  In  a  general  es- 
timate of  his  works,  it  may  be  found  that  he  has 
produced  as  tine  or  finer  passages  than  any  in  his 
Grecian  poems ;  but  their  excellence,  either  as  re- 
spects his  own,  or  the  productions  of  others,  is  com- 
parative. In  the  Grecian  poems  he  is  only  truly 
original ;  in  them  the  excellence  is  all  his  own,  and 
they  possess  the  rare  and  distinguished  quality  of 
being  as  true  to  fact  and  nature,  as  they  are  brilliant 
in  poetical  expression.  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage 
is  the  most  faithful  descriptive  poem  which  has 
been  written  since  the  Odyssey ;  and  the  occasional 
scenes  introduced  in  the  other  poems,  when  the  ac- 
tion is  laid  in  Greece,  are  equally  vivid  and  glowing. 

When  I  saw  him  at  Athens,  the  spring  was  still 
shrinking  in  the  bud.  It  was  not  until  he  returned 
from  Constantinople  in  the  following  autumn,  that 
he  saw  the  climate  and  country  with  those  delight- 
ful aspects  which  he  has  delineated  with  so  much 
felicity  in  the  Giaour  and  the  Corsair.  It  may,  how- 
ever, be  mentioned,  that  the  fine  description  of  a 
calm  sunset,  with  which  the  third  canto  of  the  Cor- 
sair opens,  has  always  reminded  me  of  the  evening 
before  his  departure  from  Athens,  owing  to  the  cir- 
cumstance of  my  having,  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
visited  the  spot  which  probably  suggested  the  scene 
described. 


m 


LORD   BYRON. 


127 


J  ac- 


It  was  the  4th  of  March,  1810 ;  the  Pylades  sloop 
of  war  came  that  morning  into  the  Piraeus,  and 
landed  Dr.  Darwin,  a  son  of  the  poet,  with  his 
friend,  Mr.  Gallon,  who  had  come  out  in  her  for  a 
cruise.  Captain  Ferguson,  her  commander,  was  so 
kind  as  to  offer  the  English,  then  in  Athens,  viz. 
Lord  Byron,  Mr.  Hobhouse,  and  myself,  a  passage 
to  Smyrna.  As  I  had  not  received  my  luggage  from 
Specia,  I  could  not  avail  myself  of  the  offer,  but  the 
other  two  did:  I  accompanied  Captain  Ferguson, 
however,  and  Dr.  Darwin,  in  a  walk  to  the  Straits 
of  Salamis  ;  the  ship,  in  the  mean  time,  after  landing 
them,  having  been  moored  there. 

It  was  one  of  those  serene  and  cloudless  days  of 
the  early  spring,  when  the  first  indications  of  leaf 
and  blossom  may  just  be  discerned.  The  islands 
slept,  as  it  were,  on  their  glassy  couch,  and  a  slight 
dim  haze  hung  upon  the  mountains,  as  if  they  too 
were  drowsy.  'After  an  easy  walk  of  about  two 
hours,  passing  through  the  olive  groves,  and  along 
the  bottom  of  the  hill  on  which  Xerxes  sat  to  view 
the  battle,  we  came  opposite  to  a  little  cove  near  the 
ferry,  and  made  a  signal  to  the  ship  for  a  boat. 
Having  gone  on  board  and  partaken  of  some  re- 
freshment, the  boat  then  <  rried  us  back  to  the  Pi- 
raeus, where  we  landed,  about  an  hour  before  sun- 
down— all  the  wide  landscape  presenting  at  the 
time  the  calm  and  genial  tranquillity  which  is  almost 
experienced  anew  in  reading  these  delicious  lines : 


■,  t 


',  M 


Slow  sinks  mo'-"  lovely  e'er  his  race  be  run, 

Along  Mor  Us,  the  setting  sun ; 

Not,  as  ii     Ji       n  climes,  obscurely  bright, 

But  one  i     'oi  aod  blaze  of  living  light. 

O'er  the  li       d  deep  the  yellow  beam  he  throws, 

Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  flows 

On  old  Egina's  rock,  and  Idra's  isle, 

The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile ; 

O'er  his  own  regions  lingering,  loves  to  shine, 

Though  there  his  altars  are  no  more  divine ; — 

Descending  fast,  the  mountain  shadows  kiss 

Thy  glorious  gulf,  unconqucr'd  Salamis ! 


II 


128 


THE   LIFE    OF 


1. 


.:;;lr  ) 


Their  azure  arches,  through  the  long  expanse, 

More  deeply  purpled  meet  his  mellowing  glance 

And  tenderest  tints,  along  their  summits  driven,  ) 

Mark  his  gay  course,  and  own  the  hues  or  heaven; 

Till  darkly  shaded  from  the  land  and  deep, 

l^ehind  his  Delphian  clilf  he  sinks  to  sleep. 

The  opening  of  the  Giaour  is  a  more  general  de- 
scription, but  the  locality  is  distinctly  marked  by 
reference  to  the  tomb  above  the  rocks  of  the  pro- 
montory, commonly  said  to  be  that  of  Themistocles ; 
and  yet  the  scene  included  in  it  certainly  is  rather 
the  view  from  Cape  Colonna,  than  from  the  heights 
of  Munychia. 

No  breath  of  air  to  break  the  wave 
That  rolls  below  the  Athenian's  grave, 
That  tomb,  which,  gleaming  o'er  the  cliff, 
First  greets  the  homeward-veering  skiff, 
High  o'er  the  land  he  saved  in  vain — 
When  shall  such  hero  live  again  ? 

The  environs  of  the  Piraeus  were  indeed,  at  that 
time,  well  calculated  to  inspire  those  mournful  re- 
flections with  which  the  poet  introduces  the  Infiders 
impassioned  tale.  The  solitude,  the  relics,  the  decay, 
and  sad  uses  to  which  the  pirate  and  the  slave-dealer 
had  '  jt  the  shores  and  waters  so  honoured  by  free- 
dom, rendered  a  visit  to  the  Piraeus  something  near 
in  feeling  to  a  pilgrimage. 

Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore, 

'Tis  Greece,  but  living  Greece  no  more ! 

So  coldly  sweet,  so  deadly  (kir. 

We  start,  for  soul  is  wanting  there. 

Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death. 

That  parts  not  quitu  with  parting  breath ; 

But  beauty  with  that  fear(\il  bloom. 

That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb, 

Expression's  last  receding  ray, 

A  gilded  halo  hov'ring  round  decay. 

The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away. 
Spark  of  that  tlame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth. 
Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherish'd  earth. 

At  that  time  Lord  Byron,  if  he  did  pity  the  condi- 
tion of  the  Greeks,  evinced  very  little  confidence  in 


LORD   BYRON. 


129 


.»! 


the  resurrection  of  the  nation,  even  although  symp- 
toms of  change  and  reanimation  were  here  and  there 
perceptible,  and  could  not  have  escaped  his  observa- 
tion. Greece  had  indeed  been  so  long  ruined,  that 
even  her  desolation  was  then  in  a  state  of  decay. 
The  new  cycle  in  her  fortunes  had  certainly  not  com- 
menced, but  it  was  manifest,  by  many  a  sign,  that 
the  course  of  the  old  was  concluding,  and  that  the 
whole  country  felt  the  assuring  auguries  of  undi- 
vulged  renovation.  The  influence  of  that  period  did 
not,  however,  penetrate  the  bosom  of  the  poet ;  and 
when  he  first  quitted  Athens,  assuredly  he  cared  as 
little  about  the  destinies  of  the  Greeks,  as  he  did  for 
those  of  the  Portuguese  and  Spaniards,  when  he  ar- 
rived at  Gibraltar. 

About  three  weeks  or  a  month  after  he  had  left 
Athens,  I  went  by  a  circuitous  route  to  Smyrna, 
where  I  found  him  waiting  with  Mr.  Hobhouse,  to 
proceed  with  the  Salsette  frigate,  then  ordered  to 
Constantinople,  to  bring  away  Mr.  Adair,  the  am- 
bassador. He  had,  in  the  mean  time,  visited  Ephe- 
sus,  and  acquired  some  knowledge  of  the  environs 
of  Smyrna ;  but  he  appeared  to  have  been  less  in- 
terested by  what  he  had  seen  there  than  by  the  ad- 
ventures of  his  Albanian  tour.  Perhaps  I  did  him 
injustice,  but  1  thought  he  was  also,  in  that  short 
space,  something  changed,  and  not  with  improve- 
ment. Towards  Mr.  Hobhouse,  he  seemed  less  cor- 
dial, and  was  altogether,  I  should  say,  having  no 
better  phrase  to  express  what  I  would  describe, 
more  of  a  Captain  Grand  than  improved  in  his  man- 
ners, and  more  disposed  to  hold  his  own  opinion 
than  I  had  ever  before  observed  in  him.  I  was  par- 
ticularly struck  with  this  at  dinner,  on  the  day  after 
my  arrival.  We  dined  together  with  a  large  party 
at  the  consuPs,  and  he  seemed  inclined  to  exact  a 
deference  to  his  dogmas,  that  was  more  lordly  than 
philosophical.  One  of  the  naval  ofl[icers  present,  I 
think  the  captain  of  the  Salsette,  felt,  as  well  as 


:ii':il 


130 


THE    LIFE    OF 


Others,  this  overweening-,  and  announced  a  contrary 
opinion  on  some  question  connected  with  the  politics 
of  the  late  Mr.  Pitt  with  so  much  firm  good  sense, 
that  Lord  Byron  was  perceptibly  rebuked  by  it,  and 
became  reserved,  as  if  he  deemed  that  sullenness 
enhanced  dignity.  I  never  in  the  whole  course  of 
my  acquaintance  saw  him  kithe  so  unfavourably  as 
he  did  on  that  occasion.  In  the  course  of  the  eve- 
ning, however,  he  condescended  to  thaw,  and  before 
the  party  broke  up,  his  austerity  began  to  leaf,  and 
hide  its  thorns  under  the  influence  of  a  relenting 
temperament.  It  was,  however,  too  evident — at 
least  it  was  so  to  me — that  without  intending  wrong, 
or  any  offence,  the  unchecked  humour  of  his  temper 
was,  by  its  caprices,  calculated  to  prevent  him  from 
ever  gaining  that  regard  to  which  his  talents  and 
freer  moods,  independently  of  his  rank,  ought  to 
have  entitled  him.  Such  men  become  objects  of 
solicitude,  but  never  of  esteem. 

I  was  also  on  this  occasion  struck  with  another 
new  phase  in  his  character ;  he  seemed  to  be  actu- 
ated by  no  purpose — he  spoke  no  more  of  passing 
•*  beyond  Aurora  and  the  Ganges,"  but  seemed  dis- 
posed to  let  the  current  of  chances  carry  him  as  it 
might.  If  he  had  any  specific  object  in  view,  it  was 
something  that  made  him  hesitate  between  going 
home  and  returning  to  Athens  when  he  should  have 
reached  Constantinople,  now  become  the  ultimate 
goal  of  his  intended  travels.  To  what  cause  this 
sudden  and  singular  change,  both  in  demeanour 
and  design,  was  owing,  1  was  on  the  point  of 
saying,  it  would  be  fruitless  to  conjecture;  but  a 
letter  to  his  mother,  written  a  few  days  before  my 
arrival  at  Smyrna,  throws  some  light  on  the  sources 
of  his  unsatisfied  state.  He  appears  by  it  to  have 
been  disappointed  of  letters  and  remittances  from 
his  agent,  and  says : 

"  When  I  arrive  at  Constantinople,  I  shall  deter- 
mine whether  to  proceed  into  Persia,  or  return — 


LORD  BYROM. 


131 


»l 


which  latter  I  do  not  wish  if  I  can  avoid  it.  But  I 
have  no  intelligence  from  Mr.  H.,  and  but  one  letter 
from  yourself.  I  shall  stand  in  need  of  remittances, 
whether  I  proceed  or  return.  I  have  written  to  him 
repeatedly,  that  he  may  not  plead  ignorance  of  my 
situation  for  neglect." 

Here  is  sufficient  evidence  that  the  cause  of  the 
undetermined  state  of  his  mind,  which  struck  me  so 
forcibly,  was  owing  to  the  incertitude  of  his  affiiirs 
at  home ;  and  it  is  easy  to  conceive  that  the  false 
dignity  he  assumed,  and  which  seemed  so  like 
arrogance,  was  the  natural  effect  of  the  anxiety  and 
embarrassment  he  suffered,  and  of  the  apprehen- 
sion of  a  person  of  his  rank  being,  on  account  of 
his  remittances,  exposed  to  require  assistance 
among  strangers.  But  as  the  scope  of  my  task  re- 
lates more  to  the  history  of  his  mind,  than  of  his 
private  affairs,  I  shall  resume  the  narrative  of  his 
travels,  in  which  the  curiosity  of  the  reader  ought 
to  be  more  legitimately  interested. 


. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


Smyrna— The  Sport  of  the  Djerid— Journey  to  Ephesus—T!ie  dead 
City— The  desolate  Country— The  Ruins  and  Obliteration  of  the 
Temple — The  slight  Impression  of  all  on  Byron. 

The  passage  in  the  Pylades  from  Athens  to 
Smyrna  was  performed  without  accident  or  adven- 
ture. 

At  Smyrna  Lord  Byron  remained  several  days, 
and  saw  ror  the  first  time  the  Turkish  pastime  of  the 
Djerid,  a  species  of  tournament  to  which  he  more 
than  once  alludes.  I  shall  therefore  describe  the 
amusement. 

The  Musselim  or  Governor,  with  the  chief  agas 


133 


THE    LIFE    OF 


\i  iv. 


i 


•i; 
I 


of  the  city,  mounted  on  horses  superbly  caparisoned* 
and  attended  by  slaves,  meet,  commonly  on  Sunday 
morning,  on  their  playground.  Each  of  the  riders 
is  furnished  with  one  or  two  djerids,  straight  white 
sticks,  a  little  thinner  than  an  umbrella-stick,  less 
at  one  end  than  at  the  other  and  about  an  ell  in 
length,  together  with  a  thin  cane  crooked  at  the 
head.  The  horsemen,  perhaps  a  hundred  in  number^ 
gallop  about  in  as  narrow  a  space  as  possible,  throw- 
ing the  djerids  at  each  other  and  shouting.  Each 
man  then  selects  an  opponent  who  has  darted  his 
djerid  or  is  for  the  moment  without  a  weapon,  and 
rushes  furiously  towards  him,  screaming  "Olloh! 
Olloh !"  The  other  flies,  looking  behind  him,  and 
the  instant  the  dart  is  launched  stoops  downwards 
as  low  as  possible,  or  wields  his  horse  with  incon- 
ceivable rapidity,  and  picking  up  a  djerid  with  his 
cane,  or  taking  one  from  a  running  slave,  pursues  in 
his  turn  the  enemy,  who  wheels  on  the  instant  he 
darts  his  weapon.  The  greatest  dexterity  is  requi- 
site in  these  mimic  battles  to  avoid  the  concurrence 
of  the  "javelin-darting  crowd,"  and  to  escape  the 
random  blows  of  the  flying  djerids. 

Byron,  having  satisfied  his  curiosity  with  Smyrna, 
which  is  so  like  every  other  Turkish  town  as  to  ex- 
cite but  little  interest,  set  out  with  Mr.  Hobhouse,  on 
the  13th  of  March,  for  Ephesus.  As  I  soon  after 
passed  along  the  same  road,  I  shall  here  describe 
what  I  met  with  myself  in  the  course  of  the  journey, 
it  being  probable  that  the  incidents  were  in  few 
respects  different  from  those  which  they  encountered. 

On  ascending  the  heights  after  leaving  Smyrna, 
the  road  was  remarkable  in  being  formed  of  the 
broken  relics  of  ancient  edifices  partly  Macadam- 
ized. On  the  brow  of  the  hill  1  met  a  numerous 
caravan  of  camels  coming  from  the  interior  of  Asia. 
These  ships  of  the  desert,  variously  loaded,  were 
moving  slowly  to  their  port,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as 
I  rode  past  them,  that  the  composed  cU)cile  look  of 


LORD   BYRON. 


133 


the  animals  possessed  a  sort  of  domesticated  grace 
which  lessened  the  effect  of  their  deformity. 

A  caravan,  owing  to  the  oriental  dresses  of  the  pas- 
sengers and  attendants,  with  the  numerous  grotesque 
circumstances  which  it  presents  to  the  stranger, 
affords  an  amusing  spectacle.  On  the  back  of  one 
camel  three  or  four  children  were  squabbling  in  a 
basket;  in  another  cooking  utensils  were  clatter- 
ing; and  from  a  crib  on  a  third  a  young  camel 
looked  forth  inquiringly  on  the  world :  a  long  desul- 
tory train  of  foot-passengers  and  cattle  brought  up 
the  rear. 

On  reaching  the  summit  of  the  hills  behind 
Smyrna  the  road  lies  through  fields  and  cotton- 
grounds,  well  cultivated  and  interspersed  with 
country-houses.  After  an  easy  ride  of  three  or  four 
hours  I  passed  through  the  ruins  of  a  considerable 
Turkish  town,  containing  four  or  five  mosques,  one 
of  them,  a  handsome  building,  still  entire;  about 
twenty  houses  or  so  might  be  described  as  tenant- 
able,  but  only  a  place  of  sepulchres  could  be  more 
awful :  it  had  been  depopulated  by  the  plague — all 
was  silent,  and  the  streets  were  matted  with  thick 
grass.  In  passing  through  an  open  space,  which 
reminded  me  of  a  market-pla(;e,  I  heard  the  cuckoo 
with  an  indescribable  sensation  of  pleasure  mingled 
with  solemnity.  The  sudden  presence  of  a  raven  at 
a  bridal  banquet  could  scarcely  have  been  a  greater 
phantasma. 

Proceeding  briskly  from  this  forsaken  and  dead 
city,  I  arrived  in  the  course  of  about  half  an  hour  at 
a  coffee-house  on  the  banks  of  a  small  stream,  where 
I  partook  of  some  refreshment  in  the  shade  of  three 
or  four  trees,  on  which  several  storks  were  conju- 
gally building  their  nests.  While  resting  there,  I 
became  interested  in  their  work,  and  observed,  that 
when  any  of  their  acquaintance  happened  to  fly 
past  with  a  stick,  they  chattered  a  sort  of  How-d'-ye- 
do  to  one  another.    This  civility  was  so  uniformly 


'i-'^  i 


K-J 


•■:^;- 


I.:,  s.-i 


-k 


;:1f 


!iv:;h 


134 


THE   LIFE   OF 


m 


m 

i.   §> 


and  reciprocally  performed,  that  the  politeness  of  the 
stork  may  be  regarded  as  even  less  disputable  than 
its  piety. 

The  road  from  that  coifee-house  lies  for  a  mile 
or  two  along  the  side  of  a  marshy  lake,  the  envi- 
rons of  which  are  equally  dreary  and  barren ;  an  ex- 
tensive plain  succeeds,  on  which  I  noticed  several 
broken  columns  of  marble,  and  the  evident  traces 
of  an  ancient  causeway,  which  apparently  led 
through  the  water.  Near  the  extremity  of  the  lake 
was  another  small  coffee-house,  with  a  burial- 
ground  and  a  mosque  near  it ;  and  about  four  or 
five  miles  beyond  I  passed  a  spot,  to  which  several 
Turks  brought  a  coffinless  corpse,  and  laid  it  on  the 
grass  while  they  silently  dug  a  grave  to  receive  it. 

The  road  then  ascended  the  hills  on  the  south  side 
of  the  plain,  of  which  the  marshy  lake  was  the 
centre,  and  passed  through  a  tract  of  country  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  only  apprehension  and  melancholy. 
Not  a  habitation  nor  vestige  of  living  man  was  in 
sigRt,  but  several  cemeteries,  with  their  dull  funeral 
cypresses  and  tomb-stones  served  to  show  that  the 
country  had  once  been  inhabited. 

Just  as  the  earliest  stars  began  to  twinkle  I  ar- 
rived at  a  third  coffee-house  on  the  road-side,  with  a 
little  mosque  before  it,  a  spreading  beach  tree  for 
travellers  to  recline  under  in  the  spring,  and  a  rude 
shed  for  them  in  showers  or  the  more  intense  sun- 
shine of  summer.  Here  I  rested  for  the  night,  and 
in  the  morning  at  daybreak  resumed  my  journey. 

After  a  short  ride  I  reached  the  borders  of  the 
plain  of  Ephesus,  across  which  I  passed  along  a  road 
rudely  constructed,  and  raised  above  the  marshy 
consisting  of  broken  pillars,  entablatures,  and  in- 
scriptions, at  the  end  of  which  two  other  paths 
diverge ;  one  strikes  off  to  the  left,  and  leads  over 
the  Cayster  by  a  bridge  above  the  castle  of  Aiasaluk 
— the  other,  leading  to  the  right  or  west,  goes 
directly  to  Scala  Nuova,  the  ancient  Neapolis.    By 


M 
II 


.  .TOvj'  r 


LORD    BYRON. 


136 


'J 


the  latter  Byron  and  his  friend  proceeded  towards 
the  ferry,  which  they  crossed,  and  where  they  found 
the  river  about  the  size  of  the  Cam  at  Cambridge, 
but  more  rapid  and  deeper.  They  then  rode  up  the 
south  bank,  and  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
arrived  at  Aiasaluk,  the  miserable  village  which  now 
represents  the  city  of  Ephesus. 

Having  put  up  their  beds  in  a  mean  khan,  the  only- 
one  in  the  town,  they  partook  of  some  cold  provi- 
sions which  they  had  brought  with  them  on  a  stone 
seat  by  the  side  of  a  fountain,  on  an  open  green 
near  to  a  mosque,  shaded  with  tall  cypresses. 
During  their  repast  a  young  Turk  approached  the 
fountain,  and  after  washing  his  feet  and  hands, 
mounted  a  flat  stone,  placed  evidently  for  the  pur- 
pose on  the  top  of  the  wall  surrounding  the  mosque, 
and  devoutly  said  his  prayers,  totally  regardless  of 
their  appearance  and  operations. 

The  remainder  of  the  atiernoon  was  spent  in  ex- 
ploring the  ruins  of  Aiasaluk,  and  next  morning 
they  proceeded  to  examine  those  of  the  castle,  and 
the  mouldering  magnificence  of  Ephesus.  The  re- 
mains of  the  celebrated  temple  of  Diana,  one  of  the 
wonders  of  the  ancient  world,  could  not  be  satisfac- 
torily traced ;  fragments  of  walls  and  arches,  which 
had  been  plated  with  marble,  were  all  they  could 
discover,  with  many  broken  columns  that  had  once 
been  mighty  in  their  altitude  and  strer  gth :  several 
fragments  were  fifteen  feet  long,  and  of  enormous 
circumference.  Such  is  the  condition  of  that  superb 
edifice,  which  was,  in  its  glor  ',  four  hundred  and 
twenty  feet  long  by  two  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
broad,  and  adorned  with  more  than  a  hundred  and 
twenty  columns  sixty  feet  high. 

"When  the  travellers  had  satisfied  their  curiosity, 
if  that  can  be  called  satisfaction  which  found  no 
entire  form,  but  saw  only  the  rubbish  of  desolation 
and  the  fragments  of  d<JStruction,  they  returned  to 
Smyrna^ 


4i- 


lii- 


it 


136 


THE   LIFE   OF 


The  investigation  of  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  was 
doubtless  interesting  at  the  time,  but  the  visit  pro- 
duced no  such  impression  on  the  mind  of  Byron  as 
might  have  been  expected.  He  never  directly  refers 
to  it  in  his  works  :  indeed,  after  Athens,  the  relics 
of  Ephesus  are  things  but  of  small  import,  especially 
to  an  imagination  which,  like  that  of  the  poet,  re- 
quired the  action  of  living  characters  to  awaken  its 
dormant  sympathies. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

Embarks  for  Constantinople— Touches  at  Tenedos— Visits  Alexandria 
—Trnas—Tke  Trojan  Plain— Swims  the  Hellespont— Arrival  at 
Constuntinople 

On  the  11th  of  April  Lord  Byron  embarked  at  Smyr- 
na, in  the  Salsette  frigate  for  Constantinople.  The 
wind  was  fair  during  the  night,  and  at  half  past  six 
next  morning,  the  ship  was  off  the  Sygean  promon- 
tory, the  north  end  of  the  ancient  Lesbos  or  Mitylene. 
Having  passed  the  headland,  north  of  the  little 
town  of  Baba,  she  came  in  sight  of  Tenedos,  where 
she  anchored,  and  the  poet  went  on  shore  to  view 
the  island. 

The  port  was  full  of  small  craft,  which  m  their 
voyage  to  the  Archipelago  had  put  in  to  wait  for 
a  change  of  wind,  and  a  crowd  of  Turks  belong- 
ing to  these  vessels  were  lounging  about  on  the 
shore.  The  town  was  then  in  ruins,  having  been 
burned  to  the  ground  by  a  Russian  squadron  in  the 
year  1807. 

Next  morning,  Byron,  with  a  party  of  officers,  left 
the  ship  to  visit  the  ruins  of  Alexandria  Troas,  and 
landed  at  an  open  port,  about  six  or  seven  miles  to 
the  south  of  where  the  Salsette  was  at  anchor.    The 


idi 


LORD   BYRON. 


137 


«ra8 
)ro- 
1  as 
fers 

3liC8 

ially 
,,re- 
n  its 


tandrUi 
rival  <U 


their 

rait  for 

^elong- 

m  the 

been 
'in  the 

irs,  left 
iSf  and 
iiles  to 
The 


spot  near  to  where  they  disembarked  was  marked 
by  several  large  cannon-balls  of  granite ;  foi  the 
ruins  of  Alexandria  have  long  supplied  the  fortresses 
of  the  Dardanelles  with  these  gigantic  missiles. 

They  rambled  some  time  through  the  shaggy 
woods,  with  which  the  country  is  covered,  and  the 
first  vestiges  of  antiquity  which  attracted  their  at- 
tention were  two  large  granite  sarcophagi ;  a  little 
beyond  they  found  two  or  three  fragments  of  granite 
pillars,  one  of  them  about  twenty-five  feet  in  length, 
and  at  least  five  in  diameter.  Near  these  they  saw 
arches  of  brick-work,  and  on  the  east  of  them  those 
magnificent  remains,  to  which  early  travellers  have 
given  the  name  of  the  palace  of  Priam,  but  which 
are,  in  fact,  the  ruins  of  ancient  baths.  An  earth- 
quake in  the  course  of  the  preceding  winter  had 
thrown  down  large  portions  of  them,  and  the  in- 
ternal divisions  of  the  edifice  were,  in  consequence, 
choked  with  huge  masses  of  mural  wrecks  and 
marbles. 

The  visiters  entered  the  interior  through  a  gap,  and 
found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  enormous  ruins, 
enclosed  on  two  sides  by  walls,  raised  on  arches, 
and  by  piles  of  ponderous  fragments.  The  fallen 
blocks  were  of  vast  dimensions,  and  showed  that 
no  cement  had  be€^n  used  in  the  construction,  an 
evidence  of  their  great  antiquity.  In  the  midst  of 
this  crushed  magnificence  stood  several  lofty  portals 
and  arches,  pedestals  of  gigantic  columns  and  broken 
steps,  and  marble  cornices,  heaped  in  desolate  con- 
fusion. 

From  these  baths  the  distance  to  the  sea  is  between 
two  and  three  miles — a  gentle  declivity  covered 
with  low  woods,  and  partially  interspersed  with  spots 
of  cultivated  ground.  On  this  slope  the  ancient 
city  of  Alexandria  Troas  was  built.  On  the  north- 
west, part  of  the  walls,  to  the  extent  of  a  mile,  may 
yet  be  traced ;  the  remains  of  a  theatre  are  also  still 
to  be  seen  on  the  side  of  the  hill  fronting  the  sea^ 

M2 


'  ;t> 


¥■: 


,!  I 


:>;.i  "^ 


138 


THE  LIFE  OF 


'Xi 


commanding  a  view  of  Tenedos,  Lemnos,  and  the 
whole  expanse  of  the  ^g^ean. 

Having  been  conducted  by  the  gjaide,  whom  they 
had  brought  with  them  from  Tenedos,  to  the  princi- 
pal antiquities  of  Alexandria  Troas,  the  visiters  re* 
turned  to  the  frigate,  which  immediately  after  got 
under  way.  On  the  14th  of  April,  she  came  to  an- 
chor about  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Cape  Janissary, 
the  Sygean  promontory,  where  she  remained  about 
a  fortnight ;  during  which  ample  opportunity  was 
afforded  to  inspect  the  plain  of  Troy,  that  scene  of 
heroism,  which,  for  three  thousand  years,  has  at- 
tracted the  attention,  and  interested  the  feelings  and 
fancy  of  the  civilized  world. 

Whether  Lord  Byron  entertained  any  doubt  of 
Homer's  Troy  ever  having  existed,  is  not  very  clear* 
It  is  probable,  from  the  little  he  says  on  the  subject 
that  he  took  no  interest  in  the  question.  For 
although  no  traveller  could  enter  with  more  sensi- 
bility into  the  local  associations  of  celebrated  places, 
he  yet  never  seemed  to  care  much  about  the  visible 
features  of  antiquity,  and  was  always  more  inclined 
to  indulge  in  reflections  than  to  puzzle  his  learning 
with  dates  or  dimensions.  His  ruminations  on  the 
Troad,  in  Don  Juan,  afford  an  instance  of  this,  and 
are  conceived  in  the  very  spirit  of  Childe  Harold. 

And  HO  great  names  are  nothing  more  than  nominal, 

And  love  of  glory 's  but  an  airy  lust, 
Too  often  in  its  Airy  overcoming  all 

Who  would,  as  H  were,  identify  their  dust 
From  out  the  wide  destruction  which,  entombing  all, 

Leaves  nothing  till  the  coming  of  the  just, 
Save  change.    Tve  stood  upon  Achilles' tomb, 
And  heard  Troy  doubted— time  will  doubt  of  Rome. 

The  ver}' generations  of  the  dead 

Are  swept  away,  and  tomb  inherits  tomb, 
Until  the  memory  of  an  age  is  fled. 

And  buried,  sinks  beneath  its  ofTspring's  doom. 
Where  are  the  epitaphs  our  fathers  read. 

Save  a  few  glean'd  from  the  sepulchral  gloom. 
Which  once  named  myriads,  nameless,  lie  beneath, 
And  lose  their  own  in  univenal  death. 


LORD  BYRON. 


130 


No  task  of  curiosity  can  indeed  be  less  satisfac- 
tory than  the  examination  of  the  sites  of  ancient 
cities;  for  the  guides,  not  content  with  leading  the 
traveller  to  the  spot,  often  attempt  to  mislead  his 
imagination,  by  directing  his  attention  to  circum- 
stances which  they  suppose  to  be  evidence  that  veri- 
fies their  traditions.  Thus,  on  the  Trojan  plain, 
several  objects  are  still  shown  which  are  described 
as  the  self-same  mentioned  in  the  Iliad.  The  wild 
fig-trees,  and  the  tomb  of  Ilus,  are  yet  there — if  the 
guides  may  be  credited.  But  they  were  seen  with 
incredulous  eyes  by  the  poet;  even  the  tomb  of  Achil- 
les appears  to  have  been  regarded  by  him  with  equal 
skepticism ;  still  his  description  of  the  scene  around 
is  striking,  and  tinted  with  some  of  his  happiest 
touches. 


I    ; 


.i't 


There  on  the  green  and  village-cotted  hill  is 

Flanked  by  the  Hellespont,  and  by  the  sea, 
Entomb'd  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  Achilles,— 

They  say  ^o.    Bryant  says  the  contrary. 
And  Arther  ^^owaward  tall  and  towering  still  is 

The  tumulus,  of  whom  Heaven  knows  it  may  be, 
Patroculus,  Ajax,  or  Protesilaus, — 
A.11  heroes,  who,  ir  living,  still  would  slay  us. 

High  barrows  without  marble  or  a  name, 

A  vast  untill'd  and  mountain-skirted  plain, 
And  Ida  in  the  distance  atiU  the  same, 

And  old  Scamander,  if 't  is  he,  remain; 
The  situation  seems  still  form'd  for  fame, 

A  hundred  thousand  men  might  fight  again 
With  ease.    But  where  I  sought  for  Ilion's  walls 
The  quiet  sheep  feeds,  and  the  tortoise  crawls. 

Troops  of  untended  horses;  here  and  there 
Some  little  hamlets,  with  new  names  uncouth, 

Some  shepherds  unlike  Paris,  led  to  stare 
A  moment  at  the  European  youth. 

Whom  to  the  spot  their  schoolboy  feelings  bear; 
A  Turk  with  beads  in  hand  and  pipe  in  mouth, 

FiXtremely  taken  with  his  own  religion. 

Are  what  I  found  there,  but  the  devil  a  Phrygian. 

It  was  during  the  time  that  the  Salsette  lay  off 
Cape  Janissary  that  Lord  Byron  first  undertook  to 
swun  across  the  Hellespont.    Having  crossed  from 


%i 


.i'li'lli 


140 


THE    LIFE    OF 


Ife 


■*; 


the  castle  of  Chanak-Kalessi,  in  a  boat  manned  by 
four  Turks,  he  landed  at  five  o'clock  in  the  evening^ 
half  a  mile  above  the  caatle  of  Chelit-Bauri,  where, 
with  an  officer  of  the  frigate  who  accompanied  him, 
they  began  their  enterprise,  emulous  of  the  renown 
of  Leauder.  At  first  they  swam  obliquely  upwards, 
rather  towards  Nagara  Point  than  the  Dardanelles, 
but  notwithstanding  their  skill  and  efforts  they  made 
little  progress.  Finding  it  useless  to  struggle  with 
the  current,  they  then  turned  and  went  with  the 
stream,  still  however  endeavouring  to  cross.  It  was 
not  until  they  had  been  half  an  hour  in  the  water, 
and  found  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  strait, 
about  a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  castles,  that  they 
consented  tu  be  taken  into  the  boat  which  had 
followed  them.  By  that  time  the  coldness  of  the 
water  had  so  benumbed  their  limbs  that  they  were 
unable  to  stand,  and  were  otherwise  much  exhausted. 
The  second  attempt  was  made  on  the  3d  of  May, 
when  the  weather  was  warmer.  They  entered  the 
water  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  and  a  half  above 
Chelit-Bauri,  near  a  point  of  land  on  the  western 
bunk  of  the  Bay  of  Maito,  and  swam  against  the 
stream  as  before,  but  not  for  so  long  a  time.  In  less 
than  half  an  hour  they  came  floating  down  the  cur- 
rent close  to  the  ship  which  was  then  anchored  at 
the  Dardanelles,  and  in  passing  her  steered  for  the 
bay  behind  the  castle,  which  they  soon  succeeded  in 
reaching,  and  landed  about  a  mile  and  a  half  below 
the  ship.  Lord  Byron  has  recorded  that  he  found 
the  current  very  strong  and  the  water  cold ;  that  some 
large  fish  passed  him  in  the  middle  of  the  channel, 
and  though  a  little  chilled  he  was  not  fatigued.,  and 
performed  the  feat  without  much  difficulty,  but  not 
with  impunity,  for  by  the  verses  in  which  he  pom- 
memorated  the  exploit  it  appears  he  incurred  the 
u«,ue. 


m 


! 
Ill 


LORD   BYRON. 


141 


:,"H!i 


I 

I 

i 


WRITTEN   AFTER  SWIMMING    FROM    SESTOS    TO   ABYDOS. 

If  in  the  month  of  dark  Deremher 
Leander  who  was  ni^lttly  wont 
(Whnt  mail!  will  not  the  tale  rt'innniber) 
TocroHS  thy  stream,  broad  IlellesfKjnt, 

If  when  the  wintr"  tempest  roar'd 
lie  sped  to  Hero  r  ahing  loath, 
And  thus  of  old  thy  current  poured, 
Fair  Venus !  how  I  pity  both. 

For  me,  dc^reneratc  modern  wretch. 
Though  in  the  genial  month  of  May, 
My  drippinie  limbs  I  faintly  stretch, 
And  think  I 've  done  a  feat  to-day. 

But  since  he  crossed  the  rapid  tide, 
According  to  the  doubtfXiI  story, 
To  woo,  and — Lord  knows  what  beside. 
And  swam  for  love  as  I  for  glory, 

'T  were  hard  to  say  who  fhred  the  best ; 
Sad  mortals  thus  the  gods  still  plague  you ; 
He  lost  his  labour,  I  my  jest,— 
For  he  wasdrown'd,  and  I  've  the  ague. 

•*  The  whole  distance,"  says  his  Lordship,  "  from 
the  place  whence  we  started  to  our  landing  on  the 
other  side,  including^  the  lengrth  we  were  carried  by 
the  current,  was  computed  by  those  on  board  the 
frigate  at  upwards  of  four  English  miles,  though  the 
actual  breadth  is  barely  one.  The  rapidity  of  the 
current  is  such  that  no  boat  can  row  directly  across, 
and  it  may  in  some  measure  be  estimated  from  the 
circumstance  of  the  whole  distance  being  accom- 
plished by  one  of  the  parties  in  an  hour  and  five, 
and  by  the  other  (Byron)  in  an  hour  and  ten  minutes. 
The  water  was  extremely  cold  from  the  melting  of 
the  mountain  snows.  About  three  weeks  before,  in 
April,  we  had  made  an  attempt ;  but  having  ridden 
all  the  way  from  the  Troad  the  same  morning,  and 
the  water  being  of  an  icy  chilness,  we  found  it  ne- 
cessary to  postpone  the  completion  till  the  frigate 
anchored  below  the  castles,  when  we  swam  the 


^M 


142 


fHE   LIFE    OF 


r- 


straits  as  just  stated,  entering  a  considerable  way- 
above  the  European,  and  landing  below  the  Asiatic 
fort.  Chevalller  says,  that  a  young  Jew  swam  the 
same  distance  for  his  mistress ;  and  Oliver  mentions 
it  having  been  done  by  a  Neapolitan ;  but  our  con- 
sul (at  the  Dardanelles),  Tarragona,  remembered 
neither  of  these  circumstances,  and  tried  to  dissuade 
us  from  the  attempt.  A  number  of  the  Salsette's 
crew  were  known  to  have  accomplished  a  greater 
distance  ;  and  the  only  thing  that  surprised  me  was, 
that  as  doubts  had  been  entertained  of  the  truth  of 
Leander's  story,  no  traveller  had  ever  endeavoured 
to  ascertain  its  practicability." 

While  the  Salsette  lay  off  the  Dardanelles,  Lord 
Byron  saw  the  body  of  a  man  who  had  been  exe- 
cuted by  being  cast  into  the  sea,  floating  on  the  stream, 
moving  to  and  fro  with  the  tumbling  of  the  water, 
which  gave  to  his  arms  the  effect  of  scaring  away 
several  sea-fowl  that  were  hovering  to  devour.  This 
incident  he  has  strikingly  depicted  in  "  The  Bride 
of  Abydos." 

The  sea-birds  shriek  above  the  prey 

O'er  which  their  hungry  beaks  delay, 

As  shaken  on  his  restless  pillow, 

His  head  heaves  with  the  heaving  billow ; 

That  hand  whose  motion  is  not  life, 

Yet  feebly  seems  to  menace  strife,  ' 

Flung  by  the  tossing  tide  on  high, 

Then  levell'd  with  the  wave— 
What  recks  it  tho'  that  corse  shall  lie 

Within  a  living  grave. 
The  bird  that  tears  that  prostrate  form 
Hath  only  rohb'd  the  meaner  worm. — 
The  only  heart,  the  only  eye, 
That  bled  or  wept  to  see  him  die, 
Had  seen  those  scattered  limbs  composed, 

And  mojirn'd  above  his  turban  stone ; 
That  heart  hath  burst— that  eye  was  closed — 

Yea— closed  before  his  own.  :< 

Between  the  Dardanelles  and  Constantinople  no 
other  adventure  was  undertaken  or  befell  the  poet. 
On  the  13th  of  May,  the  frigate  came  to  anchor  at 


"11, 


fi 


LORD   BYRON. 


149 


sunset,  near  the  headland  to  the  west  of  the  Seraglio 
Point ;  and  when  the  night  closed  in,  the  silence  and 
the  darkness  were  so  complete  "  that  we  might  have 
believed  ourselves,"  says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "moored 
in  the  lonely  cove  of  some  desert  island,  and  not 
at  the  foot  of  a  city  which,  from  its  vast  extent  and 
countless  population,  is  fondly  imagined  by  its  pre- 
sent masters  to  be  worthy  to  be  called  The  Refuge 
OF  THE  World." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


iftii"'' 


,  I'  \. 


;'•!   I    fit 


Constantinople— Description— The  Dogs  and  the  Dead — Landed  at  To' 
pha,.a-^The  Masterless  Dogs — The  Slave  Market — The  Seraglio — 
The  Defects  in  the  Description 

The  spot  where  the  frigate  came  to  anchor  affords 
but  an  imperfect  view  of  the  Ottoman  capital.  A 
few  tall  white  minarets,  and  the  domes  of  the  great 
mosques  only  are  in  sight,  interspersed  with  trees 
and  mean  masses  of  domestic  buildings.  In  the 
distance,  inland  on  the  left,  the  redoubted  castle  of 
the  Seven  Towers  is  seen  rising  above  the  gloomy 
walls ;  and,  unlike  every  other  European  city,  a  pro- 
found silence  prevails  over  all.  This  remarkable 
characteristic  of  Constantinople  is  owing  to  the  very 
few  wheel-carriages  employed  in  the  city.  In  other 
respects  the  view  around  is  lively,  and  in  fine 
weather  quickened  with  innumerable  objects  in  mo- 
tion. In  the  calmest  days  the  rippling  in  the  flow 
of  the  Bosphorus  is  like  the  running  of  a  river.  In 
the  fifth  canto  of  Don  Juan,  Lord  Byron  has  seized 
the  principal  features,  and  delineated  them  with 
sparkling  effect. 

The  European  with  the  Asian  shore, 
Sprinkled  with  palaces,  the  ocean  stream 


i\\    -i 


I  '      V"l 


I 


ilJt. 


:.ii:i!!ll| 


144  THE   LIFE   OF 

Here  and  there  studded  with  a  seventy-finnv 

Sophia's  cupola  with  golden  gleam ; 

The  cypress  groves ;  Olympus  high  and  hoar; 

The  twelve  isles,  and  the  more  thati  I  could  dream, 
Far  less  describe,  present  the  very  view 
Which  charm'd  the  charming  Mary  Montague. 

Ill  the  moniing,  when  his  Lordship  left  the  ship, 
the  wind  blew  strongly  from  the  north-east,  and  the 
rushing  current  of  the  Bosphorus  dashed  with  great 
violence  against  the  rocky  projections  of  the  shore, 
as  the  captain's  boat  was  rowed  against  the 
stream. 


;i:it^ 


I  \ 


■,  ( 


The  wind  swept  down  the  Euxine,  and  the  wave 
Broke  foaming  o'er  the  blue  Symplegades. 
'TIS  a  grand  sight,  IVom  off  the  giant's  grave, 
To  watch  the  progress  of  those  rolling  seas 
Between  the  Bosphorus,  as  they  lash  and  lave 
Europe  and  Asia,  you  being  quite  at  ease. 

"The  sensations  produced  by  the  state  of  the 
weather,  and  leaving  a  comfortable  cabin,  were," 
says  Mr.  Hobhouse,  "in  unison  with  the  impressions 
which  we  felt,  when,  passing  under  the  palace  of  the 
sultans,  and  gazing  at  the  gloomy  cypress,  which 
rise  above  the  walls,  we  saw  two  dogs  gnawing  a 
dead  body."  The  description  in  The  Siege  of 
Corinth  of  the  dogs  devouring  the  dead,  owes  its 
origin  to  this  incident  of  the  dogs  and  the  body 
under  the  walls  of  the  seraglio. 

And  he  saw  the  lean  dogs  beneath  the  wall, 

Hold  o'er  the  dead  their  carnival. 

Gorging  and  growling  o'er  carcass  and  limb, 

They  were  too  busy  to  bark  at  him. 

From  a  Tartar's  scull  they  had  stripped  the  flesh, 

As  ye  peel  the  fig  when  its  fruit  is  fresh, 

And  their  white  tusks  crunched  on  (he  whiter  scnll, 

As  it  slipp'd  through  their  jaws  when  their  edge  grew  doll. 

As  they  lazily  mumbled  the  bones  of  the  dead, 

When  they  scarce  could  rise  from  the  spot  where  they  M, 

So  well  had  they  broken  a  lingering  fast, 

With  those  who  had  fallen  for  that  night's  repast. 

And  Alp  knew  by  tho  turbans  that  rollM  on  the  nand, 

The  foremost  of  these  were  the  best  of  his  band. 


the 


the 


>dy 


[dull. 
llBd. 


LORD   BYRON.  145 

Crimson  and  green  were  the  atiawls  of  their  wear, 

And  each  scalp  had  a  single  long  tnd  of  hair, 

All  the  rest  was  shaven  and  bare. 

The  scalps  were  in  the  wild  dogs'  maw, 

The  hair  was  tangled  round  his  jaw. 

But  close  by  the  shore  on  the  edge  of  the  gulf, 

There  sat  a  vulture  flapping  a  wolf, 

Who  had  stolen  fVom  the  bills  but  kept  away, 

Scared  by  the  dogs  from  the  human  prey ; 

But  he  seized  on  his  share  of  a  steed  that  lay, 

Pick'd  by  the  birds  on  the  sands  of  the  bay. 

This  hideous  picture  is  a  striking  instance  of  the 
uses  to  which  imaginative  power  may  turn  the  slight- 
est hint,  and  of  horror  augmented  till  it  reach  that 
extreme  point  at  which  the  ridiculous  commences. 
The  whole  compass  of  English  poetry  affords  no 
parallel  to  this  passage.  It  even  exceeds  the  cele- 
brated catalogue  of  dreadful  things  on  the  sacra- 
mental table  in  Tarn  O'Shanter.  It  is  true,  that  the 
revolting  circumstances  described  by  Byron  are  less 
sublime  in  heir  associations  than  those  of  Burns, 
being  merr  \?;  ble  images,  unconnected  with  ideas 
of  guilt,  8    1  uiilike 

The  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Which  his  ain  nonof  life  bereft: 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stuck  to  the  heft. 

Nor  is  there  in  the  vivid  group  of  the  vulture  flap- 
ping the  wolf,  any  accessory  to  rouse  stronger 
emotions,  than  those  which  are  associated  with  the 
sight  of  energy  and  courage,  while  the  covert  insi- 
nuation, that  the  bird  is  actuated  by  some  instigation 
of  retribution  in  pursuing  the  wolf  for  having  run 
away  with  the  bone,  approaches  the  very  point  and 
line  where  the  horrible  merges  in  the  ludicrous. 
The  whole  passage  is  fearfully  distinct,  and  though  in 
its  circumstances,  as  the  poet  himself  says, "  sicken- 
ing," is  yet  an  amazing  display  of  poetical  power 
andhigh  invention. 

The  frigate  sent  the  travellers  on  shore  at  Tophana, 
from  which  the  road  ascends  to  Pera.  Near  this 
landing-place  is  a  large  fountain,  and  around  it  a 

N 


I; 

if 

'    ):  t 
'  I 


■f\ 


i 


■ii 


a-  ■  ** 


146 


THE    LIFE    OF 


V: 


public  stand  of  horses  ready  saddled,  attended  by 
boys.  On  some  of  these  Lord  Byron  and  his  friend, 
with  the  officers  who  had  accompanied  them, 
mounted  and  rode  up  the  steep  hill,  to  the  principal 
Frank  Hotel,  in  Pera,  where  they  intended  to  lodge. 
In  the  course  of  the  ride  their  attention  was  at- 
tracted to  the  prodigious  number  of  masterless  dogs 
which  lounge  and  lurk  about  the  corners  of  the 
streets;  a  nuisance  both  dangerous  and  disagree- 
able, but  which  the  Turks  not  only  tolerate  but  pro- 
tect. It  is  no  uncommon  thing  to  see  a  litter  of 
puppies  with  their  mother  nestled  in  a  mat  placed  on 
purpose  for  them  in  a  nook  by  some  charitable 
Mussulman  of  the  neighbourhood ;  for  notwithstand- 
ing their  merciless  military  practices,  the  Turks 
are  pitiful-hearted  Titans  to  dumb  animals  and 
slaves.  Constantinople  has,  however,  been  so  often 
and  so  well  described,  that  it  is  unnecessary  to 
notice  its  different  objects  of  curiosity  here,  except 
in  so  far  as  they  have  been  contributory  to  the  stores 
of  the  poet. 

The  slave-market  was  of  course  not  unvisited, 
but  the  description  in  Don  Juaii  is  more  indebted  to 
the  author's  fancy,  than  any  oi  those  other  bright 
reflections  of  realities  to  which  I  have  hitherto 
directed  the  attention  of  the  reader.  The  market 
now-a-days  is  in  truth  very  uninteresting;  few 
slaves  are  ever  to  be  seen  in  it,  and  the  place  itself 
has  an  odious  resemblance  to  Smithfield.  I  imagine, 
therefore,  that  the  trade  in  slaves  is  chiefly  managed 
by  private  bargaining.  When  there,  I  saw  only  two 
men  for  sale,  whites,  who  appeared  very  little  con- 
cerned about  their  destination,  certainly  not  more 
than  English  rustics  offering  themselves  for  hire  to 
the  farmers  at  a  fair  or  market.  Doubtless,  there 
was  a  time  when  the  slave-market  of  Constantinople 
presented  a  different  spectacle,  but  the  trade  itself 
has  undergone  a  change — the  Christians  are  now 
interdicted  from  purchasing  slaves.    The  luxury  of 


LORD    BYRON. 


147 


the  guilt  is  reserved  for  the  exclusive  enjoyment  of 
the  Turks.  Still,  as  a  description  of  things  which 
may  have  been,  Byron's  market  is  probable  and 
curious. 


A  crowd  of  shivering  slaves  of  every  nation, 
And  age  and  sex  were  in  the  market  ranged, 
Each  busy  with  tlie  merchant  in  his  station. 
Poor  creaturee,  their  good  look?  were  sadly  changed. 

All  save  the  blacks  seem'd  jaded  with  vexation, 
From  friends,  and  home,  and  freedom  far  estranged. 
The  negroes  more  philosophy  displayed, 
Used  .to  it  no  doubt,  as  eels  are  to  be  flayed. 

Like  a  backgammon  board,  the  place  was  dotted 
With  whites  and  blacks  in  groups,  on  show  for  sale, 
Though  rathev  more  irregularly  spotted ; 
Some  bought  the  jet,  while  others  chose  the  pale. 

No  lady  e'er  is  ogled  by  a  lover, 

Horse  by  a  black-leg,  broadcloth  by  a  tailor, 

Fee  by  a  counsel,  tielon  by  a  jailer. 

As  is  a  slave  by  his  intended  bidder. 
'TIS  pleasant  purchasing  our  fellow-creatures, 
And  all  are  to  be  sold,  if  you  consider 
Their  passions,  and  are  dext'rous,  some  by  features 
Are  bought  up,  others  by  a  warlike  leader ; 
Some  by  a  place,  as  tend  their  years  or  natures ; 
The  most  by  ready  cash,  but  all  have  prices, 
From  crowns  to  kicks,  according  to  their  vices. 


il 


-  .1 


The  account  of  the  interior  of  the  seraglio  in  Don 
Juan  is  also  only  probably  correct,  and  may  have 
been  drawn  in  several  particulars  from  an  inspection 
of  some  of  the  palaces,  but  the  descriptions  of  the 
imperial  harem  are  entirely  fanciful.  I  am  per- 
suaded, by  different  circumstances,  that  Byron  could 
not  have  been  in  those  sacred  chambers  of  any  of 
the  seraglios.  At  the  time  I  was  in  Constantinople, 
only  one  of  the  imperial  residences  was  accessible 
to  strangers,  and  it  was  unfurnished.  The  great 
seraglio  was  not  accessible  beyond  the  courts,  except 
in  those  apartments  where  the  sultan  receives  his 
officers  and  visiters  of  state.  Indeed,  the  whole  ac- 
count of  the  customs  and  usages  of  the  interior  of 


i  ii?   i 


143 


THE   LIFE    OF 


i**^^A  s^i 


the  jserafflio,  as  described  in  Don  Juan,  can  only  be 
regarded  as  inventions ;  and  though  the  descriptions 
abound  in  picturesque  beauty,  they  have  not  that  air 
of  truth  and  fact  about  them  which  render  the  pic- 
tures of  Byron  so  generally  valuable,  independent 
of  their  poetical  excellence.  In  those  he  has  given 
of  the  apartments  of  the  men,  the  liveliness  and 
fidelity  of  his  pencil  cannot  be  denied ;  but  the  Arabian 
tales  and  Vathek  seem  to  have  had  more  influence 
on  his  fancy  in  describing  the  imperial  harem,  than 
a  knowledge  of  actual  things  and  appearances.  Not 
that  the  latter  are  inferior  to  the  former  in  beauty, 
or  are  without  images  and  lineaments  of  graphic 
distinctness,  but  they  want  that  air  of  reality  which 
constitutes  the  singular  excellence  of  his  scenes 
drawn  from  nature ;  and  there  is  a  vagueness  in 
them  which  has  the  effect  of  making  them  obscure, 
and  even  fantastical.  Indeed,  except  when  he  paints 
from  actual  models,  from  living  persons  and  existing 
things,  his  superiority,  at  least  his  originality,  is  not 
so  obvious ;  and  thus  it  happens,  that  his  gorgeous 
description  of  the  sultan's  seraglio  is  like  a  versified 
passage  of  an  Arabian  tale,  while  the  imagery  of 
Childe  Harold's  visit  to  Ali  Pashaw  has  all  the 
freshness  and  life  of  an  actual  scene.  The  follow- 
ing is,  indeed,  more  like  an  imitation  of  Vathek,  than 
any  thing  that  has  been  seen,  or  is  in  existence.  I 
quote  it  for  the  contrast  it  affords  to  the  visit  referred 
to,  and  in  illustration  of  the  distinction  which  should 
be  made  between  beauties  derived  from  actual  scenes 
and  adventures,  and  compilations  from  memory  and 
imagination,  which  are  supposed  to  display  so  much 
more  of  creative  invention. 

And  thus  they  parted,  each  by  sejiarate  doors, 
Raba  led  Juan  onward,  room  by  iiiom, 
Through  ghttering  galleries  and  o  \^r  marble  floors, 
Till  a  gigantic  portal  through  the  gloom 
Haughty  and  huge  along  the  distance  towers, 
And  wafled  fkr  arose  a  rich  perAirae, 

It  seem'd  as  though  they  came  vipan  a  shrine^ 

For  all  was  vast,  still,  flragrant,  and  divine. 


LORD   BYRON. 

The  giant  door  was  broad  and  bright  and  Uigh, 
Of  gilded  bronze,  and  carved  in  curious  guise,; 
Warriors  thereon  were  battling  fXiriously ; 
Here  stalks  the  victor,  there  the  vamiuitih'd  lies ; 
There  captives  led  in  triumph  droop  the  eye, 
And  in  perspective  many  a  squadron  Aies. 
It  seems  the  work  of  times  before  the  line 
Of  Rome  transplanted  fell  with  Constantine. 

This  massy  portal  stood  at  the  wide  close 

Of  a  huge  hall,  and  on  its  either  side 

Two  little  dwarfs,  the  least  you  could  suppose, 

Were  sate,  like  ugly  imps,  as  if  allied 

In  mockery  to  the  enormous  gate  which  rose 

O'er  them  in  almost  pyramidic  pride. 


149 


''Ji 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 


i^ 


the 
ilow- 
than 


lould 

;enes 

and 

luch 


Dispute  with  the  Ambassador— Reflections  on  Byron's  Pride  of  Rank — 
Abandons  his  Oriental  Travels— Re-embarks  in  the  Salsette—The 
Dagger  Scene— Zea — Returns  to  Athens — Tour  in  the  Morea — Dan- 
gerous  Illness — Return  to  Athens— The  Adventure  on  which  the 
Giaour  is  founded. 

Although  Lord  Byron  remained  two  months  in 
Constantinople,  and  visited  every  object  of  interest 
and  curiosity  within  and  around  it,  he  yet  brought 
away  with  him  fewer  poetical  impressions  than  from 
any  other  part  of  the  Ottoman  dominions ;  at  least 
he  has  made  less  use  in  his  works  of  what  he  saw 
and  learned  there,  than  of  the  materials  he  collected 
in  other  places. 

From  whatever  cause  it  arose,  the  self-abstraction 
which  I  had  noticed  at  Smyrna,  was  remarked  about 
him  while  he  was  in  the  capital,  and  the  same  jea- 
lousy of  his  rank  was  so  nervously  awake,  that  it 
led  him  to  attempt  an  obtrusion  on  the  ambassa- 
dorial etiquettes — which  he  probably  regretted. 

It  has  grown  into  a  custom,  at  Constantinople, 
when  the  foreign  ministers  are  admitted  to  audiences 
of  ceremony  with  the  sultan,  to  allow  the  subjects 

N2 


11 


VM' 


w 


150 


THE    LIFE    OF 


0r' 


!      ,  i-  • 


and  travellers  of  their  respective  nations  to  accom- 
pany them,  both  to  swell  the  pomp  of  the  spectacle, 
and  to  gratify  their  curiosity.  Mr.  Adair,  our  ambas- 
sador, for  whom  the  Salsette  had  been  sent,  had 
his  audience  of  leave  appointed  soon  after  Lord 
Byron's  arrival,  and  his  Lordship  was  particularly 
anxious  to  occupy  a  station  of  distinction  in  the 
procession.  The  pretension  was  ridiculous  in  itself, 
and  showed  less  acquaintance  with  courtly  ceremo- 
nies than  might  have  been  expected  in  a  person  of 
his  rank  and  intelligence.  Mr.  Adair  assured  him 
that  he  could  obtain  no  particular  place ;  that  in  the 
arrangements  for  the  ceremonifil,  only  the  persons 
connected  with  the  embassy  could  be  considered,  and 
that  the  Turks  neither  acknowledged  the  prece- 
dence, nor  could  be  requested  to  consider  the  dis- 
tinctions of  our  nobility.  Byron,  however,  still  per- 
sisted, and  the  minister  was  obliged  to  refer  him  on 
the  subject  to  the  Austrian  Internuncio,  a  high  au- 
thority in  questions  of  etiquette,  vjrhose  opinion  was 
decidedly  against  the  pretension. 

The  jMride  of  rank  was  indeed  one  of  the  greatest 
weaknesses  of  Lord  Byron,  and  every  thing,  even 
of  the  most  accidental  kind,  which  seemed  to  come 
between  the  wind  and  his  nobility,  was  repelled  |on 
the  spot.  I  recollect  having  some  debate  with  him 
once  respecting  a  pique  of  etiquette,  which  happened 
between  him  and  Sir  William  Drummond,  some- 
where in  Portugal  or  Spain.  Sir  William  was  at 
the  time  an  ambassador  (not,  however,  I  believe,  in 
the  country  where  the  incident  occurred),  and  was 
on  the  point  of  taking  precedence  in  passing  from 
one  room  to  another,  when  Byron  stepped  in  before 
him.  The  action  was  undoubtedly  rude  on  the  part 
of  his  Lordship,  even  though  Sir  William  had  pre- 
sumed too  far  on  his  riband :  to  me  it  seemed  also 
wrong;  for,  by  the  custom  of  all  nations  from  time 
immemorial,  ambassadors  have  been  allowed  their 
official  rank  in  passing  through  foreign  countries, 


"(Til 


3ve,  in 
id  was 
from 
[before 
le  part 
Id  pre- 
Id  also 
time 
their 
kntries, 


LORD   BYRON. 


151 


while  peers  in  the  same  circumstances  claim  no 
rank  at  all ;  even  in  our  own  colonies  it  has  been 
doubted  if  they  may  take  precedence  of  the  legisla- 
tive counsellors.  But  the  rights  of  rank  are  best 
determined  by  the  heralds,  and  I  have  only  to  re- 
mark, that  it  is  almost  inconceivable  that  such  things 
should  have  so  morbidly  affected  the  sensibility  of 
Lord  Byron ;  yet  they  certainly  did  so,  and  even  to 
a  ridiculous  degree.  On  one  occasion,  when  he 
lodged  in  St.  Jameses-street,  I  recollect  him  rating 
the  footman  for  using  a  double  knock  in  accidental 
thoughtlessness. 

These  little  infirmities  are,  however,  at  most  only 
calculated  to  excite  a  smile ;  there  is  no  turpitude  in 
them,  and  they  merit  notice  but  as  indications  of  the 
humour  of  character.  It  was  his  Lordship's  foible 
to  overrate  his  rank,  to  grudge  his  deformity  beyond 
reason,  and  to  exaggerate  the  condition  of  his  family 
and  circumstances.  But  the  alloy  of  such  small 
vanities,  his  caprice  and  feline  temper,  were  as  va- 
pour compared  with  the  mass  of  rich  and  rare  ore 
which  constituted  the  orb  and  nucleus  of  his  bril- 
liancy. 

'  He  had  not  been  long  in  Constantinople,  when  a 
change  came  over  his  intentions ;  the  journey  to  Per- 
sia was  abandoned,  and  the  dreams  of  India  were 
dissolved.  The  particular  causes  which  produced 
this  change  are  not  very  apparent — but  Mr.  Hob- 
house  was  at  the  same  time  directed  to  return  home, 
and  perhaps  that  circumstance  had  some  influence 
on  his  decision,  which  he  communicated  to  his  mo- 
ther, informing  her,  that  he  should  probably  return 
to  Greece.  As  in  that  letter  he  alludes  to  his  em- 
barrassment on  account  of  remittances,  it  is  pro- 
bable that  the  neglect  of  his  agent,  with  respect  to 
them,  was  the  main  cause  which  induced  him  to  de- 
termine on  going  no  farther. 
Accordingly,  on  the  14th  of  July,  he  embarked 

with  Mr.  Hobhouse  and  the  ambassador  on  board 


"li.l^l   ); 


,^i 


!> 


i  '        > 


M 


-I 

■,l,l. 


,l?ll. 


.1  .J 


k 


'W 


152 


THE   LIFE    OF 


the  Salsette.  It  was  in  the  course  of  the  passage  to 
the  island  of  Zea,  where  he  was  put  on  shore,  that 
one  of  the  most  emphatic  incidents  of  his  life  oc- 
curred; an  incident  which  throws  a  remarkable 
gleam  into  the  springs  and  intricacies  of  his  cha- 
racter— more,  perhaps,  than  any  thing  which  has  yet 
been  mentioned. 

One  day,  as  he  was  walking  the  quarter-deck,  he 
lifted  an  ataghan  (it  might  be  one  of  the  midship- 
men's weapons),  and  unsheathing  it,  said,  contem- 
plating the  blade,  "  I  should  like  to  know  how  a  per- 
son feels  after  committing  murder." — By  those  who 
have  inquiringly  noticed  the  extraordinary  cast  of 
his  metaphysical  associations,  this  dagger-scene 
must  be  regarded  as  both  impressive  and  solemn ; 
although  the  wish  to  know  how  a  man  felt  after 
committing  murder  does  not  imply  any  desire  to 
perpetrate  the  crime.  The  feeling  might  be  appre- 
ciated by  experiencing  any  actual  degree  of  guilt ; 
for  it  is  not  the  deed — the  sentiment  which  follows 
it  makes  the  horror.  But  it  is  doing  injustice  to 
suppose  the  expression  of  such  a  wish  dictated  by 
desire.  Lord  Byron  has  been  heard  to  express,  in 
the  eccentricity  of  conversation,  wishes  for  a  more 
^intense  knowledge  of  remorse  than  murder  itself 
could  give.  There  is,  however,  a  wide  and  wild  dif- 
ference between  the  curiosity  that  prompts  the  wish 
to  know  the  exactitude  of  any  feelinor  or  idea,  and 
the  direful  passions  that  instigate  to  guilty  gratifi- 
cations. 

Being  landed,  according  to  his  request,  with  his 
valet,  two  Albanians,  and  a  Tartar,  on  the  shore  of 
Zea,  it  may  be  easily  conceived  that  he  saw  the  ship 
depart  with  a  feeling  before  unfelt.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  was  left  companionless,  and  the  scene 
around  was  calculated  to  nourish  stern  fancies,  even 
though  there  was  not  much  of  suffering  to  be  with- 
stood. 

The  landing-place  in  the  port  of  Zea,  I  recollect 


iiiuiK  jii,  II  pivH  «imp«i^n>nwn7v 


his 
re  of 

ship 

first 
scene 
(even 

riili' 

)llect 


LORD   BYRON. 


153 


distinctly.  The  port  itself  is  a  small  land-locked 
gulf,  or,  as  the  Scottish  Highlander  would  call  it,  a 
loch.  The  banks  are  rocky  and  forbidding;  the 
hills,  which  rise  to  the  altitude  of  mountains,  have, 
in  a  long  course  of  ages,  been  always  inhabited  by  a 
civilized  people.  Their  precipitous  sides  are  formed 
into  innumerable  artificial  terraces,  the  aspect  of 
which,  austere,  ruinous,  and  ancient,  produces  on  the 
mind  of  the  stranger  a  sense  of  the  presence  of  a 
greater  antiquity  than  the  sight  of  monuments  of 
mere  labour  and  art.  The  town  stands  high  upon 
the  mountain,  I  counted  on  the  lower  side  of  the 
road  which  leads  to  it  forty-nine  of  those  terraces  at 
one  place  under  me,  and  on  the  opposite  hills, 
in  several  places,  upwards  of  sixty.  Whether  Lord 
Byron  ascended  to  the  town  is  doubtful.  I  have 
never  heard  him  mention  that  he  had;  and  I  am  in- 
clined to  think  that  he  proceeded  at  once  to  Athens 
by  one  of  the  boats  which  frequent  the  harbour. 

At  Athens  he  met  an  old  fellow-collegian,  the 
Marquis  of  Sligo,  with  whom  he  soon  after  travelled 
as  far  as  Corinth ;  the  Marquis  turning  off  there 
for  Tripolizza,  while  Byron  went  forward  to  Patras, 
where  he  had  some  needful  business  to  transact 
with  the  consul.  He  then  made  the  tour  of  the 
Morea,  in  the  course  of  which  he  visited  the  vizier 
Velhi  Pashaw,  by  whom  he  was  treated,  as  every 
other  English  traveller  of  the  time  was,  with  great 
distinction  and  hospitality. 

Having  occasion  to  go  back  to  Patras,  he  was 
seized  by  the  local  fever  there,  and  reduced  to 
death's  door.  On  his  recovery  he  returned  to  Athens, 
where  he  found  the  Marquis,  with  Lady  Hester 
Stanhope,  and  Mr.  Bruce,  afterward  so  celebrated 
for  his  adventures  in  assisting  the  escape  of  the 
French  general  Lavalette.  He  took  possession  of 
the  apartments  which  I  had  occupied  in  the  monas- 
tery, and  made  them  his  home  during  the  remainder 
of  his  residence  in  Greece ;  but  when  I  returned  to 


1^1 


:     ''■:  i 


'!     ii 


imi 


154 


THE    LIFE    OF 


^% 


■I 


Athens,  in  October,  he  was  not  there  himself.  I 
found,  however,  his  valet,  Fletcher,  in  possession. 

There  is  no  very  clear  account  of  tl»e  manner  in 
which  Lord  Byron  employed  himself  after  his  return 
to  Athens;  but  various  intimations  in  his  correspond- 
ence show  that  during  the  winter  his  pen  was  not 
idle.  It  would,  however,  be  to  neglect  an  important 
occurrence,  not  to  notice  that  during  the  time  when 
he  was  at  Athens  alone,  the  incident  which  he 
afterward  imbodied  in  the  impassioned  fragments  of 
the  Giaour  came  to  pass  ;  and  to  apprize  the  reader 
that  the  story  is  founded  on  an  adventure  which  hap- 
pened to  himself— he  was,  in  fact,  the  cause  of  the 
girl  being  condemned,  and  ordered  to  be  sewn  up  in 
a  sack  and  thrown  into  the  sea. 

One  day,  as  he  was  returning  from  bathing  in  the 
Piraeus,  he  met  the  procession  going  down  to  the 
shore  to  execute  the  sentence  which  the  Waywode 
had  pronounced  on  the  girl ;  and  learning  the  ob- 
ject of  the  ceremony,  and  who  was  the  victim,  he 
immediately  interfered  with  great  resolution ;  for,  on 
observing  some  hesitation  on  the  part  of  the  leader 
of  the  escort  to  return  with  him  to  the  governor's 
house,  he  drew  a  pistol  and  threatened  to  shoot  him 
on  the  spot.  The  man  then  turned  about,  and  ac- 
companied him  back,  when,  partly  by  bribery  and 
entreaty,  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  pardon  for  her, 
on  condition  that  she  was  sent  immediately  out  of 
the  city.  Byron  conveyed  her  to  the  monastery, 
and  on  the  same  night  sent  her  off  to  Thebes,  where 
she  found  a  safe  asylum. 

With  this  affair,  I  may  close  his  adventures  in 
Greece  ;  for,  although  he  remained  several  months 
subsequent  at  Athens,  he  w^as  in  a  great  measure 
stationary.  His  health,  which  was  never  robust, 
was  impaired  by  the  effects  of  the  fever,  which  lin- 
gered about  him ;  perhaps,  too,  by  the  humiliating 
anxiety  he  suffered  on  account  of  the  uncertainty 
in  his  remittances.    But  however  this  may  have 


:Sy 


LORD    BYRON. 


155 


been,  it  was  fortunate  for  his  fame  thai  he  returned 
to  En<Tiand  at  the  period  he  did,  for  the  chmate  of 
the  Mediterraiuvan  was  detriment  d  to  his  constitu- 
tion. Thf3  heat  oppressed  him  so  much  as  to  be  po- 
sitive suflering,  and  scarcely  had  he  reached  Malta, 
on  his  way  home,  when  he  was  visited  again  with 


a  tertian  ague. 


.'  vt 


i 


i 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


Arrivalin  London— Mr.  Dallas's Patrfnmtre — Arranges  for  the  Pubf'cO' 
Hon  of  ChiLde  Harold— Thti  Death  of  Mrs.  Byron — liis  Sorrow-  Ha 
■Affair  with  Mr.  Moore— Their  Meeting  at  Mr.  Rogers's  House,  and 
Friendship. 

LoBD  Byron  arrived  in  London  about  the  middle 
of  July,  1811,  having  been  absent  a  few  days  more 
than  two  years.  The  embarrassed  condition  in 
which  he  found  his  affairs  sufficiently  explains 
the  dejection  and  uneasiness  with  which  he  was 
afflicted  during  the  latter  part  of  his  residence  in 
Greece ;  and  yet  it  was  not  such  as  ought  to  have 
affected  him  so  deeply,  nor  have  I  ever  been  able 
to  comprehend  wherefore  so  much  stress  has  been 
laid  on  his  supposed  friendlessness.  In  respect 
both  to  it  and  to  his  ravelled  fortune,  a  great  deal 
too  much  has  been  too  often  said ;  an^  the  manli- 
ness of  his  character  has  suffered  by  the  puli'i;.:;. 

His  correspondence  shows  that  he  had  several 
friends  to  whom  he  was  much  attached,  and  his 
disposition  justifies  the  belief  that,  had  ho  not  been 
well  persuaded  the  attachment  was  reciprocal,  he 
would  not  have  remained  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
them.  And  though  for  his  rank  not  rich,  he  was 
still  able  to  maintain  all  its  suitable  exhibition. 
The  world  could  never  regard  as  an  object  of  com- 
passion or  of  sympathy  an  English  noble,  whose  iu- 


:( ■»: 


ur;-? 


156 


THE   LIFE    OF 


come  was  enough  to  support  his  dignity  among  his 
peers,  and  whose  poverty,  however  grievous  to  his 

Sride,  caused  only  the  privation  of  extravagance, 
lut  it  cannot  be  controverted,  that  there  was  an  in- 
nate predilection  in  the  mind  of  Lord  Byron  to  mys- 
tify every  thing  about  himself:  he  was  actuated  by 
a  passion  to  excite  attention,  and,  like  every  other 
passion,  it  was  often  indulged  at  the  expense  of  pro- 
priety. He  had  the  infirmity  of  speaking,  though 
vaguely,  and  in  obscure  hints  and  allusions,  more  of 
his  personal  concerns  than  is  commonly  deemed 
consistent  with  a  correct  estimate  of  the  interest 
which  mankind  take  in  the  cares  of  one  another. 
But  he  lived  to  feel  and  to  rue  the  consequences  : 
to  repent  he  could  not,  for  the  cause  was  in  the  very 
element  of  his  nature.  It  was  a  blemish  as  incura- 
ble as  the  deformity  of  his  foot. 

On  his  arrival  in  London,  his  relation,  Mr.  Dallas, 
called  on  him,  and  in  the  course  of  their  first  brief 
conversation  his  Lordship  mentioned  that  he  had 
written  a  paraphrase  of  Horace's  Art  of  Poetry,  but 
said  nothing  then  of  Childe  Harold,  a  circumstance 
which  leads  me  to  suspect  that  he  offered  him  the 
slighter  work  first,  to  enjoy  his  surprise  afterward 
at  the  greater.  If  so,  the  result  answered  the  intent. 
Mr.  Dallas  carried  home  with  him  the  paraphrase 
of  Horace,  with  which  he  was  grievously  disap- 
pointed ;  so  much  so,  that  on  meeting  his  Lordship 
affain  in  the  morning,  and  being  reluctant  to  speak 
of  it  as  he  really  thought,  he  only  expressed  some 
surprise  that  his  noble  friend  should  have  produced 
nothing  else  during  his  long  absence. 

I  can  easily  conceive  the  emphatic  indifference, 
if  my  conjecture  be  well  founded,  with  which  Lord 
Byron  must  have  said  to  him,  "  I  have  occasionally 
written  short  poems,  besides  a  great  many  stanzas 
in  Spenser's  measure,  relative  to  vhe  countries  I 
have  visited :  they  are  not  worth  troubling  you  with, 
but  you  shall  have  them  all  with  you,  if  you  like." 


■'I  1  ii 


LORD   BYROX. 


157 


rence, 
Lord 

)nally 
inzas 
fies  1 
with* 

lUke." 


Cliilde  Harold's  Pilgrimage  was  accordingly  placed 
in  his  hands ;  Mr.  Dallas  took  it  home,  and  was  not 
slow  in  discovering  its  beauties,  for  in  the  course  of 
the  same  evening  he  despatched  a  note  to  his  Lord- 
ship, as  fair  a  specimen  of  the  style  of  an  elderly 
patronising  gentleman  as  can  well  be  imagined: 
"  You  have  written,"  said  he,  "  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful poems  I  ever  read.  If  I  wrote  this  in  flat- 
tery, I  should  deserve  your  contempt  rather  than 
your  friendship.  I  have  been  so  fascinated  with 
Childe  Harold,  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  lay  it 
down ;  I  would  almost  pledge  my  life  on  its  advanc- 
ing the  reputation  of  your  poetical  powers,  and  on 
its  gaining  you  great  honour  and  regard,  if  you  will 
do  me  the  credit  and  favour  of  attending  to  my  sug- 
gestions." 

For  some  reason  or  another.  Lord  Byron,  how- 
ever, felt  or  feigned  great  reluctance  to  publish 
Childe  Harold.  Possibly  his  repugnance  was  dic- 
tated by  diffidence,  not  with  respect  to  its  merits,  but 
from  a  consciousness  that  the  hero  of  the  poem  ex- 
hibited traits  and  resemblances  of  himself.  It  would 
indeed  be  injustice  to  his  judgment  and  taste,  to  sup- 
pose he  was  not  sensible  of  the  superiority  of  the 
ttrse  and  energetic  poetry  which  brightens  and  burns 
in  every  stanza  of  the  pilgrimage,  compared  with 
the  loose  and  sprawling  lines,  and  dull  rhythm,  of 
the  paraphrase.  It  is  true  that  he  alleged  it  had 
been  condemned  by  a  good  critic — the  only  one  who 
had  previously  seen  it — probably  Mr.  Hobhouse, 
who  was  with  him  during  the  time  he  was  writing 
it;  but  still  I  cannot  conceive  he  was  so  blind  to  ex- 
cellence, as  to  prefer  in  sincerity  the  other  compo- 
sition, which  was  only  an  imitation.  But  the  argu- 
ments of  Mr.  Dallas  prevailed,  and  in  due  season 
Childe  Harold  was  prepared  for  the  press. 

Tn  the  mean  time,  while  busily  engaged  in  his  lite- 
rary projects  with  Mr.  Dallas,  and  in  law  affairs 
with  hib  agent,  he  was  suddenly  summoned  to  New* 

0 


»/•    •■!» 


158 


THE    LIFE    OF 


stead  by  the  state  of  his  mother's  health :  before  he 
reached  the  Abbey  she  had  breathed  her  last.  The 
«vent  deeply  affected  him;  he  had  not  seen  her 
since  his  return,  and  a  presentiment  possessed  her 
"when  they  parted,  that  she  was  never  to  see  him 


agam. 


Notwithstanding  her  violent  temper  and  other  un- 
seemly conduct,  her  affection  for  him  had  been  so 
fond  and  dear,  that  he  undoubtedly  returned  it  with 
unaffected  sincerity;  and  from  many  casual  and 
incidental  expressions  which  I  have  heard  hira  em- 
ploy concerning  her,  I  am  persuaded  that  his  filial 
love  was  not  at  any  time  even  of  an  ordinary  kind. 
During  her  life  he  might  feel  uneasy  respecting  her, 
apprehensive  on  account  of  her  ungovernable  pas- 
sions and  indiscretions,  but  the  manner  in  which  he 
lamented  her  death,  clearly  proves  that  the  integrity 
of  his  af!ection  had  never  been  impaired. 

On  the  night  after  his  arrival  at  the  Abbey,  the 
waiting- woman  of  Mrs.  Byron,  in  passing  the  door  of 
the  room  where  the  corpse  lay,  heard  the  sound  of 
some  one  sighing  heavily  within,  and  on  entering 
found  his  Lordship  sitting  in  the  dark  beside  the  bed. 
She  remonstrated  with  him  for  so  giving  way  to 
grief,  when  he  burst  into  tears,  and  exclaimed,  "  1 
had  but  one  friend  in  the  world,  and  she  is  gone." 
Of  the  fervency  of  his  sorrow  I  do  therefore  think 
there  can  be  no  doubt ;  the  very  endeavour  which  he 
made  to  conceal  it  by  indifference,  was  a  proof  of  its 
depth  and  anguish,  though  he  hazarded  the  stric- 
tures of  the  world  by  the  indecorum  of  his  conduct 
on  the  occasion  of  the  fun.^ral. — Having  declined  to 
follow  the  remains  himself;  he  stood  looking  from 
the  hall-door  at  the  proces'  ioii,  till  the  whole  had 
moved  away;  and  then,  turning  to  one  of  the  ser- 
vants, the  only  person  left,  hf;  desired  him  to  fetch 
the  sparring-gloves,  and  proceeded  with  him  to  his 
usual  exercise.  But  the  scene  was  impressive,  and 
spoke  eloquently  of  a  gii(!ved  heart ;— he  sparred  iu 


•H 


re  he 
The 
I  her 
1  her 
!  him 

;r  un- 
len  so 
t  with 
.1  and 
BL  em- 
s  filial 
r  kind, 
ig  her, 
e  pas- 
lich  he 
tegrity 

ey,  the 
door  of 
lund  of 
ntering 
he  bed. 
way  to 
ned, "  I 
gone." 
think 
lich  he 
)f  of  its 
stric- 
•onduct 
lined  to 
g  from 
ole  had 
he  ser- 
o  fetch 
in  to  his 
live,  and 
larred  in 


e 


LORD   BYRON. 


159 


silence  all  the  time,  and  the  servant  thought  that  he 
hit  harder  than  was  his  habit,  at  last  he  suddenly 
flung  away  the  gloves  and  retired  to  his  own  room. 

As  soon  as  the  funeral  was  over  the  publication 
of  Childe  Harold  was  resumed,  but  it  went  slowly 
through  the  press.  In  the  mean  time,  an  incident  oc- 
curred to  him  which  deserves  to  be  noted — because  it 
is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  in  his  life,  and  has 
given  rise  to  consequences  affecting  his  fame — with 
advantage. 

In  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers,  he  had 
alluded,  with  provoking  pleasantry,  to  a  meeting 
which  had  taken  place  at  Chalk  Farm  some  years 
before,  between  Mr.  Jeffrey,  the  Edinburgh  Reviewer, 
and  Mr.  Moore,  without  recollecting,  indeed  without 
haviifg  heard,  that  Mr.  Moore  had  explained,  through 
the  newspapers,  what  was  alleged  to  have  been  ridi- 
culous in  the  affair.  This  revival  of  the  subject,  espe- 
cially as  it  called  in  question  the  truth  of  Mr.  Moore's 
statement,  obliged  that  gentleman  to  demand  an  ex- 
planation; but  Lord  Byron,  being  abroad,  did  not 
receive  this  letter,  and  of  course  knew  not  of  its  con- 
tents, so  that,  on  bis  return,  Mr.  Moore  was  induced 
to  address  his  Lordship  again.  The  correspondence 
which  ensued  is  honourable  to  the  spirit  and  feelings 
of  both. 

Mr.  Moore,  after  referring  to  his  first  letter,  re- 
stated the  nature  of  the  insult  which  the  passage  in 
the  note  to  the  poem  was  calculated  to  convey,  ad- 
ding, "  It  is  now  useless  to  speak  of  the  steps  with 
which  it  was  my  intention  to  follow  up  that  letter, 
the  time  which  has  elapsed  since  then,  though  it  has 
done  away  neither  the  injury  nor  the  feeling  of  it, 
has,  in  many  respects,  materially  altered  my  situation, 
and  the  only  object  1  have  now  in  writing  to  your 
Lordship,  is  to  preserve  some  consistency  with  that 
former  letter,  and  to  prove  to  you  that  the  injured 
feeling  still  exists,  however  circumstances  may  com- 
pel me  to  be  deaf  to  its  dictates  at  present.    When  I 


■iti 


M 


'\ 


11    .'t1 


'il^: 


160 


THE   LIFE    OF 


i 

say  *  injured  feclmg,  l?t  me  asijre  your  Lordship 
tlmi.  there  is  iiot  a  single  ''indi/tive  sentiment  in  my 
mind  towards  you ;  I  mean  hut  to  express  that  mieasi- 
ness  under  what  I  consider  to  be  a  charge  of  false- 
hood, which  must  haunt,  a  man  of  any  feeling  to  his 
grave,  unless  the  insuit  be  retracted,  or  atoned  for ; 
and  which,  if  I  did  no .  i*  til,  I  should  indeed  deserve 
far  worse  than  your  Lordship's  satire  could  inflict 
upon  me."  And  he  concluded  by  saying,  that  so  far 
from  being  influenced  by  any  angry  or  resentful 
feeling,  it  would  give  him  sincere  pleasure  if,  by  any 
satisfactory  explanation,  his  Lordship  would  enable 
him  to  seek  the  honour  of  being  ranked  among  his 
acquaintance. 

The  answer  of  Lord  Byron  was  diplomatic  but 
manly.  He  declared  that  he  never  received  Mr, 
Moore's  letter,  and  assured  him  that  in  whatever 
part  of  the  world  it  had  reached  him,  he  would  have 
deemed  it  his  duty  to  return  and  answer  it  in  person; 
that  he  knew  nothing  of  the  advertisement  to  which 
Mr.  Moore  had  alluded,  and  consequently  could  not 
have  had  the  slightest  idea  of  "  giving  the  lie"  to 
an  address  which  he  had  never  seen.  "When  I 
put  my  name  to  the  production,"  said  his  Lordship, 
"  which  has  occasioned  this  correspondence,  I  be- 
came responsible  to  all  whom  it  might  concern,  to 
explain  where  it  requires  explanation,  and  where 
insufficiently  or  too  sufficiently  explicit,  at  all  events 
to  satisfy;  my  situation  leaves  me  no  choice;  it 
rests  with  the  injured  and  the  angry  to  obtain  repa- 
ration in  their  own  way.  With  regard  to  the  passage 
in  question,  you  were  certainly  not  the  person  to- 
wards whom  I  felt  personally  hostile :  on  the  contrary, 
my  whole  thoughts  were  engrossed  by  one  whom  I 
had  reason  to  consider  as  my  worst  literary  enemy, 
nor  could  I  foresee  that  his  former  antagonist  was 
about  to  become  his  champion.  You  do  not  specify 
what  yon  would  wish  to  have  done.  I  can  neither 
retract  nor  apologize  for  a  charge  of  falsehood  which 
I  never  advanced." 


n 


LORD   BYRON. 


161 


'A 


ship 

my 

asi- 

ilse- 

)his 

for; 

lerve 

[iflict 

10  far 

intful 

^any 

nable 

ig  his 

c  but 

i  Mr. 

attever 

I  have 

Bjrson; 

which 

ild  not 

lie"  to 

hen  1 
dship, 

,Ibe- 
jrn,  to 

Iwhere 
jvents 
Lce;  it 
repa- 
Lssage 
Ion  to- 
litrary, 
rhom  I 
inemy, 
5t  was 
specify 
leither 
which 


In  reply,  Mr.  Moore  commenced  by  acknow- 
ledging that  his  Lordship's  letter  was  upon  the  whole 
as  satisfactory  as  he  could  expect ;  and  after  alluding 
to  specific  circumstances  in  the  case,  concluded 
thus :  "  As  your  Lordship  does  not  show  any  wish 
to  proceed  beyond  the  rigid  formulary  of  explana- 
tion, it  is  not  for  me  to  make  any  farther  advances. 
We  Irishmen,  in  business  of  this  kind,  seldom  know 
any  medium  between  decided  hostility  and  decided 
friendship.  But  as  any  approaches  towards  the  latter 
alternative  must  now  depend  entirely  on  your  Lord- 
ship, I  liave  only  to  rep^eat  that  I  am  satisfied  with 
your  letter."  Here  the  correspondence  would  pro- 
bably, with  most  people,  have  been  closed,  but  Lord 
Byron's  sensibility  was  interested,  and  would  not 
let  it  rest.  Accordingly,  on  the  following  day,  he  re- 
joined :  "  Soon  after  my  return  to  England,  my  friend 
Mr.  Hodgson  apprized  me  that  a  letter  for  me  was  in 
his  jjossession  •,  but  a  domestic  event  hurrying  me 
from  London  immediately  after,  the  letter,  which 
may  most  probably  be  your  own,  is  still  unopened  in 
his  keeping.  If,  on  examination  of  the  address,  the 
similarity  of  the  handwriting  should  lead  to  such 
a  conclusion,  it  shall  be  opened  in  your  presence, 
for  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties.  Mr.  H.  is  at  pre- 
sent out  of  town ;  on  Friday  I  shall  see  him,  and  re- 
quest him  to  forward  it  to  my  address.  With  regard 
to  the  latter  part  of  both  your  letters,  until  the  prin- 
cipal point  was  discussed  between  us,  I  felt  myself 
at  a  loss  in  what  manner  to  reply.  Was  I  to  anti- 
cipate friendship  from  one  who  conceived  me  to  have 
charged  him  with  falsehood  1  were  not  advances 
under  such  circumstances  to  be  misconstrued,  not 
perhaps  by  the  person  to  whom  they  were  ad- 
dressed, but  by  others  ]  In  my  case  such  a  step 
was  impracticable.  If  you,  who  conceived  yourself 
to  be  the  offended  person,  are  satisfied  that  you  had 
no  cause  for  offence,  it  will  not  be  difficult  to  con- 
vince me  of  it.  My  situation,  as  I  have  before  stated, 

02 


i.' 


i 


''1^ 

';,1 


I  ,.:ii 


'!  -1  i' 


i 


''.■A 


^]|i 


V 


162 


THE    LIFE    OF 


leaves  me  no  choice.  I  should  have  felt  proud  of 
your  acquaintance  had  it  commenced  under  other 
circumstances,  but  it  must  rest  with  you  to  deter- 
minf»  how  far  it  may  proceed  after  so  auspicious  a 
beginning." 

Mr.  Moore  acknowledges  that  he  was  somewhat 
piqued  at  the  manner  in  which  his  efforts  towards  a 
more  friendly  understanding  were  received,  and  has- 
tened to  close  the  correspondence  by  a  short  note, 
saying  that  his  Lordship  had  made  Inm  feel  the  im- 
prudence he  was  guilty  of  in  wandering  from  the 
point  immediately  in  discussion  between  them.  This 
drew  immediately  Irom  Lord  Byron  the  following 
frank  and  openhearted  reply : — 

"You  musl  excuse  my  troubling  you  once  more 
upon  this  very  unpleasant  subject.  It  would  be  a 
satisfaction  to  nvdj  and  1  should  think  to  yourself, 
that  the  unopened  letter  in  Mr.  Hodgson's  posses- 
sion (supposing  it  to  prove  your  own)  should  be  re- 
turned in  statu  quo  to  the  writer,  particularly  as  you 
expressed  yourself  *  not  quite  easy  under  the  manner 
in  which  I  had  dwelt  on  its  miscarriage.' 

"  A  few  words  more  and  I  shall  not  trouble  you 
farther.  I  felt,  and  still  feel,  very  much  flattered  by 
those  parts  of  your  correspondence  which  held  out 
the  prospect  of  our  becoming  acquainted.  If  I  did 
not  meet  them,  in  the  first  instance,  as  perhaps  I 
ought,  let  the  situation  in  which  I  was  placed  be  my 
defence.  You  have  now  declared  yourself  satisfiedi 
and  on  that  point  we  are  no  longer  at  issue.  If, 
therefore,  you  still  retain  any  wish  to  do  me  the 
honour  you  hinted  at,  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  meet 
you  when,  where,  and  how  you  please,  and  I  pre- 
sume you  will  not  attribute  my  saying  thus  much  to 
any  unworthy  motive." 

The  result  was  a  dinner  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Rogers,  the  amiable  and  celebrated  author  of  The 
Pleasures  of  Memory,  and  the  only  guest  besides 
the  two  adversaries,  was  Mr.  Campbell,  author  of 


•c» 


LORD   BYRON. 


163 


The  Pleasures  of  Hope :  a  poetical  group  of  four 
not  easily  to  be  matched,  among  contemporaries  in 
any  age  or  country. 

The  meeting  could  not  but  be  interesting,  and  Mr. 
Moore  has  described  the  effect  it  had  on  himself 
with  a  felicitous  warmth,  which  showed  how  much 
he  enjoyed  the  party,  and  was  pleased  with  the 
friendship  that  ensued. 

"  Among  the  impressions,"  says  he,  "  which  this 
meeting  left  on  me,  what  I  chiefly  remember  to  have 
remarked  was,  the  nobleness  of  his  air,  his  beauty, 
the  gentleness  of  his  voice  and  manners,  and — what 
was  naturally  not  the  least  attraction — ^his  marked 
kindness  for  myself.  Being  in  mourning  for  his 
mother,  the  colour  as  well  of  his  dress  as  of  his 
glossy,  curling,  and  picturesque  hair,  gave  more  effect 
to  the  pure  spiritual  paleness  of  his  features,  in  the 
expression  of  which,  when  he  spoke,  there  was  a 
perpetual  play  of  lively  thought,  though  melancholy 
was  their  habitual  character  when  in  repose." 


Mr. 

The 
;sides 
or  of 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

TTie  Libel  in  the  Scourge — Hie  general  Impression  of  his  Character — 
Improvement  in  his  Manners,  as  his  Merit  loas  acknowledged  by  the 
Public — His  Address  in  Management — Hisjirst  Speech  in  Parliament 
— The  Publication  of  Childe  Harold— Its  Reception  and  Effect. 

During  the  first  winter  after  Lord  Byron  had 
returned  to  England,  1  was  frequently  with  him. 
Childe  Harold  was  not  then  published ;  and  although 
the  impression  of  his  satire,  English  Bards  and 
Scotch  Reviewers,  was  still  strong  upon  the  public, 
he  could  not  well  be  said  to  have  been  then  a  cele- 
brated character.  At  that  time  the  strongest  feeling 
by  which  he  appeared  to  be  actuated  was  indignation 


'i  'ft! 


111'! 


0.  ^.^ 

i''i! 


1,.  •.,,„>, 


h'.^, 


164 


THE   LIFE   OF 


against  a  writer  in  a  scurrilous  publication,  called 
The  Scourge ;  in  which  he  was  not  only  treated  with 
unjustifiable  malignity,  but  charged  with  being,  as 
he  told  me  himself,  the  illegitimate  son  of  a  mur- 
derer. I  had  not  read  the  work ;  but  the  writer  who 
could  make  such  an  absurd  accusation,  must  have 
been  strangely  ignorant  of  the  very  circumstances 
from  which  he  d(  'ived  the  materials  of  his  own  libel. 
"When  Lord  Byron  mentioned  the  subject  to  me,  and 
that  he  was  consulting  Sir  Vickery  Gibbs,  with  the 
intention  of  prosecuting  the  publisher  and  the  author^ 
I  advised  him,  as  well  as  I  could,  to  desist,  simply  be- 
cause the  allegations  referred  to  well-known  occur- 
rences. His  granduncle's  duel  with  Mr.  Chaworth, 
and  the  order  of  the  House  of  Peers  to  produce  evi- 
dence of  his  grandfather's  marriage  with  Miss  Tre- 
vannion ;  the  facts  of  which  being  matter  of  history 
and  public  record,  superseded  the  necessity  of  any 
proceeding. 

Knowing  how  deeply  this  affair  agitated  him  at 
tliat  time,  I  was  not  surprised  at  the  sequestration 
in  which  he  held  himself— and  which  made  those 
who  were  not  acquainted  with  his  shy  and  mys- 
tical nature,  apply  to  him  the  description  of  his 
own  Lara: 


The  chief  of  Lara  is  return'd  again, 

And  why  had  Lara  cross'd  the  bounding  main  ?— 

Led  by  his  sire  too  young  such  loss  to  know, 

Lord  of  himself; — that  heritage  of  wo. 

In  him,  inexplicably  mix'd,  appear'd 

Much  to  be  loved  and  hated,  sought  and  fear'd, 

Opinion  varying  o'er  his  hidden  lot, 

In  praise  or  railing  ne'er  his  name  forgot. 

His  silence  form'd  a  theme  for  others'  prate ; 

They  guess'd,  they  gazed,  they  fain  would  know  his  fate, 

What  had  he  been?  what  was  he,  thus  unknown. 

Who  walk'd  their  world,  his  lineage  only  known  ? 

A  hater  of  his  kind?  yet  some  would  say. 

With  them  he  could  seem  gay  amid  the  gay ; 

But  own'd  that  smile,  if  oft  observed  and  near 

Waned  in  its  mirth,  and  wither'd  to  a  sneer; 

That  smile  might  reach  his  lip,  but  pass'd  not  by 

None  e'er  could  trace  its  laughter  to  his  eye : 


LORD   BYRON. 


165 


Yet  there  was  softness,  too,  in  his  regard, 

At  times  a  heart  is  not  by  nature  linrd. 

But  once  perceived,  his  spirit  Necin'd  to  hide 

Such  weakness  as  unworthy  of  its  pride, 

And  stretch'd  itself  as  scorning  to  redeem 

One  doubt  from  others'  half- withheld  esteem ; 

In  self-inflicted  pentince  of  a  breast 

Which  tenderness  might  once  have  wrung  from  rest, 

In  vigilance  of  grief  tliat  would  compel 

The  soul  to  hate  for  having  loved  too  well. 

There  was  in  him  a  vital  scorn  of  all, 

As  if  the  worst  had  fhiru  which  could  befall. 

He  stood  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 

An  erring  spirit  from  another  hurl'd ; 

A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,  that  shaped 

By  choice  the  perils  he  by  chance  escaped. 

Such  was  Byron  to  common  observance  on  his  re- 
turn.^ I  recollect  one  night  meeting  him  at  the 
Opera.  Seeing  me  with  a  gentleman  whom  he  did 
not  know,  and  to  whom  he  was  unknown,  he  ad- 
dressed me  in  Italian,  and  we  continued  to  converse 
for  some  time  in  that  language.  My  friend,  who  in 
the  mean  while  had  been  observing  him  with  curio- 
sity, conceiving  him  to  be  a  foreigner,  inquired  in 
the  course  of  the  evening  who  he  was,  remarking, 
that  he  had  never  seen  a  man  with  such  a  Cain-like 
mark  on  the  forehead  before,  alluding  to  that  sin- 
gular scowl  which  struck  me  so  forcibly  when  I  first 
saw  him,  and  which  appears  to  have  made  a  stronger 
impression  upon  me  than  it  did  upon  many  others. 
I  never,  in  fact,  could  overcome  entirely  the  preju- 
dice of  the  first  impression,  although  I  ought  to  have 
been  gratified  by  the  friendship  and  confidence  with 
which  he  always  appeared  disposed  to  treat  me. 
When  Childe  Harold  was  printed,  he  sent  me  a 
quarto  copy  before  the  publication ;  a  favour  and  dis- 
tinction I  have  always  prized ;  and  the  copy  which 
he  gave  me  of  the  Bride  of  Abydos  was  one  he  had 
prepared  for  a  new  edition,  and  which  contains,  in 
his  own  writing,  these  six  lines  in  no  other  copy : 


';! 


;  ) 


Bless'd— as  the  Muezzin's  strain  (Vom  Mecca's  wall 
To  pilgrims  pure  and  prostrate  at  his  call. 


■lifli 


166  THE    LIFE    OF 

Soft— as  the  melody  of  youthAil  days 

That  stealM  tho  trombling  tear  of  spcochleHS  praise, 

Sweet— as  his  native  hoiij?  to  exile's  ears 

Shall  sound  each  tone  thy  long-loved  voice  endears. 

He  had  not,  it  is  true,  at  the  period  of  which  I 
am  speaking,  gathered  much  of  his  fame ;  but  the 
gale  was  rising — and  though  the  vessel  was  evidently 
yielding  to  the  breeze,  she  was  neither  crank  nor 
unsteady.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  he  became  an 
object  of  public  interest,  the  less  did  he  indulge  his 
capricious  humour.  About  the  time  when  the  Bride 
of  Abydos  was  published,  he  appeared  disposed  to 
settle  into  a  consistent  character — especially  after 
the  first  sale  of  Newstead.  Before  that  partictilar 
event,  he  was  often  so  disturbed  in  his  mind#  that  he 
could  not  conceal  his  unhappiness,  and  frequently 
spoke  of  leaving  England  for  ever. 

Although  few  men  were  more  under  the  impulses 
of  passion  than  Lord  Byron,  there  was  yet  a  curious 
kind  of  management  about  him  which  showed  that 
he  was  well  aware  how  much  of  the  world's  favour 
was  to  be  won  by  it.  Long  before  Childe  Harold 
appeared,  it  was  generally  known  that  he  had  a 
poem  in  the  press,  and  various  surmises  to  stimulate 
curiosity  were  circulated  concerning  it :  I  do  not 
say  that  these  were  by  his  orders,  or  under  his 
directions,  but  on  one  occasion  I  did  fancy  that  I 
could  discern  a  touch  of  his  own  hand  in  a  para- 
graph in  the  Morning  Post,  in  which  he  was  men- 
tioned as  having  returned  from  an  excursion  into 
the  interior  of  Africa;  and  when  I  alluded  to  it, 
my  suspicion  was  confirmed  by  his  embarrassment. 

I  mention  this  incident  not  in  the  spirit  of  detrac- 
tion ;  for  in  the  paragraph  there  was  nothing  of  puff, 
though  certainly  something  of  oddity — but  as  a  tint 
of  character,  indicative  of  the  appetite  for  distinction 
by  which,  about  this  period,  he  became  so  power- 
fully incited,  that  at  last  it  grew  into  a  diseased 
crave,  and  to  such  a  degree,  that  were  the  figure 


)ara- 
len- 
into 

to  it, 
lent. 

Itrac- 

Ipuff, 
tint 
5tion 
jwer- 
Used 
Igure 


LORD   BYRON. 


167 


allowable,  it  might  be  said,  the  mouth  being  incapable 
of  supplying  adequate  means  to  appease  it — every 
pore  became  another  mouth  greedy  of  nourishment. 
I  am,  however,  hastening  on  too  fast.  Lord  Byron 
"was,  at  that  time,  far  indeed  from  being  ruled  by  any 
such  inordinate  passion ;  the  fears,  the  timidity, 
and  bashfulness  of  young  desire  still  clung  to  him, 
and  he  was  throbbing  with  doubt  if  he  should  be 
found  worthy  of  the  high  prize  for  which  he  was  about 
to  offer  himself  a  candidate.  The  course  he  adopted 
on  the  occasion,  whether  dictated  by  management, 
or  the  effect  of  accident,  was,  however,  well  cal- 
culated to  attract  attention  to  his  d^but  as  a  public 
man. 

When  Childe  Harold  was  ready  for  publication,  he 
determined  to  make  his  first  appearance  as  an  ora- 
tor in  the  House  of  Lords :  the  occasion  was  judi- 
ciously chosen,  being  a  debate  on  the  Nottingham 
frame-breaking  bill ;  a  subject  on  which  it  was  na- 
tural to  suppose  he  possessed  some  local  knowledge 
that  might  bear  upon  a  question  directed  so  exclu- 
sively against  transactions  in  his  own  county.  He 
prepared  himself  as  the  best  orators  do  in  their  first 
essays,  not  only  by  composing,  but  writing  down, 
the  whole  of  his  speech  beforehand.  The  reception 
he  met  with  was  flattering ;  he  was  complimented 
"warmly  by  some  of  the  speakers  on  his  own  side; 
but  it  must  be  confessed  that  his  debut  was  more 
showy  than  promising.  It  lacked  weight  in  meal, 
as  was  observed  at  the  time,  and  the  mode  of  deli- 
very was  more  like  a  schoolboy's  recital  than  a  mas- 
culine grapple  with  an  argument.  It  was,  moreover, 
full  of  rhetorical  exaggerations,  and  disfigured  with 
conceits.  Still  it  scintillated  with  talent,  and  justi- 
fied the  opinion  that  he  was  an  extraordinary  young 
man,  probably  destined  to  distinction,  though  he 
might  not  be  a  statesman. 

Mr.  Dallas  gives  a  lively  account  of  his  elation  on 
the  occasion.    "  When  he  left  the  great  chamber," 


a: 


f 


•i;  i4  i 


>% 


168 


THE   LIFE   OF 


ri.1 


{!>■'. 


says  that  gentleman,  "  I  went  and  met  him  in  the 
passage ;  he  was  glowing  with  success,  and  much 
agitated.  I  had  an  umbrella  in  my  right  hand,  not 
expecting  that  he  would  put  out  his  hand  to  me ;  in 
my  haste  to  take  it  when  offered,  I  had  advanced  my 
left  hand :  *  What  I*  said  he,  *  give  your  friend  your 
left  hand  upon  such  an  occasion  V  I  showed  the 
cause,  and  immediately  changing  the  umbrella  to  the 
other,  I  gave  him  my  right  hand,  which  he  shook 
and  pressed  warmly.  He  was  greatly  elated,  and 
repeated  some  of  the  compliments  which  had 
been  paid  him,  and  mentioned  one  or  two  of  the 
peers  who  had  desired  to  be  introduced  to  him. 
He  concluded  by  saying,  that  he  had,  by  his 
speech,  given  me  the  best  advertisement  for  Childe 
Harold's  Pilgrimage." 

It  is  upon  this  latter  circumstance,  that  I  have  ven- 
tured to  state  my  suspicion,  that  there  was  a  degree 
of  worldly  management  in  making  his  first  appear- 
ance in  the  House  of  Lords,  so  immediately  preced- 
ing the  publication  of  his  poem.  The  speech  was, 
indeed,  a  splendid  advertisement,  but  the  greater 
and  brighter  merits  of  the  poem,  soon  proved  that  it 
was  not  requisite,  for  the  speech  made  no  impression, 
but  the  poem  was  at  once  hailed  with  delight  aAd 
admiration.  It  filled  a  vacancy  in  the  public  mind, 
which  the  excitement  and  inflation  arising  from  the 
mighty  events  of  the  age,  had  created.  The  world, 
in  its  condition  and  circumstances,  was  prepared  to 
receive  a  work,  so  original,  vigorous,  and  beautiful ; 
and  the  reception  was  such  that  there  was  no  undue 
extravagance  in  the  noble  author  saying  in  his  me- 
morandum, "  I  awoke  one  morning  and  found  my- 
self famous." 

But  he  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  revel  in  such  tri- 
umphant success  with  impunity.  If  the  great  spirits 
of  the  time  were  smitten  with  astonishment  at  the 
splendour  of  the  rising  fire,  the  imps  and  elves  of 
malignity  and  malice  fluttered  their  bat- wings  in  all 


m 


LORD   BYRON. 


169 


directions.  Those  whom  the  poet  had  afHicted  in 
his  satire,  and  who  had  remained  quietly  crouching 
with  lacerated  shoulders  in  the  hope  that  their  fla- 
gellation would  be  forgotten,  and  that  the  avenging 
demon  who  had  so  punished  their  imbecility  would 
pass  away,  were  terrified  from  their  obscurity.  They 
came  like  moths  to  the  candle,  and  sarcasms  in  the 
satire  which  had  long  been  unheeded,  in  the  belief 
that  they  would  soon  be  forgotten,  were  felt  to  have 
been  barbed  with  irremediable  venom,  when  they 
beheld  the  avenger 

Towering  in  his  pride  of  place. 


% 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


my- 

tri- 
)irits 

the 
)s  of 
ball 


Sketches  of  Character— His  Friendly  DisposHimis— Introduce  Prince 

K to  him— Our  last  Interview — HLs  continued  Kindness  towards 

me— Instance  of  it  to  one  of  my  Friends. 

For  some  time  after  the  publication  of  Childe 
Harold,  the  noble  author  appeared  to  more  advantage 
than  I  ever  afterward  saw  him.  He  was  soothed 
by  success;  and  the  universal  applause  which 
attended  his  poem  seemed  to  make  him  think  more 
kindly  of  the  world,  of  which  he  has  too  often  com- 
plained, while  it  would  be  difficult  to  discover,  in  his 
career  and  fortunes,  that  he  had  ever  received  any 
cause  from  it  to  justify  his  complaint. 

At  no  time,  I  imagine,  could  it  be  said  that  Lord 
Byron  was  one  of  those  men  who  interest  them- 
selves in  the  concerns  of  others.  He  had  always 
too  much  to  do  with  his  own  thoughts  about  him- 
self, to  afford  time  for  the  consideration  of  aught  that 
was  lower  in  his  aflfections.  But  still  he  had  many 
amiable  fits^  and  at  the  particular  period  to  which 
I  allude,  he  evinced  a  constancy  in  the  disposition  to 

P 


•-■'! 


#T 


170 


THE   LIFE    OF 


oblige,  which  proved  how  little  self-control  ^Tas 
wanting  to  have  made  him  as  pleasant  as  he  Was 
uniformly  interesting.  I  felt  this  towards  myself  in 
a  matter  which  had  certainly  the  grace  of  conde- 
scension in  it,  at  the  expense  of  some  trouble  to  him. 
I  then  lived  at  the  corner  of  Bridge-street,  West- 
minster, and  in  going  to  the  House  of  Lords  he  fre- 
quently stopped  to  inquire  if  I  wanted  a  frank.  His 
conversation,  at  the  same  time,  was  of  a  milder  vein, 
and  with  the  single  exception  of  one  day,  while 
dining  together  at  the  St.  Alban's,  it  was  light  and 
playful,  as  if  gayety  had  become  its  habitude. 

Perhaps  I  regarded  him  too  curiously,  and  more 
than  once  it  struck  me  that  he  thought  so.  For  at 
times,  when  he  was  in  his  comfortless  moods,  he  has 
talked  of  his  affairs  and  perplexities  as  if  I  had  been 
much  more  acquainted  with  them  than  I  had  any 
opportunity  of  being.  But  he  was  a  subject  for 
study,  such  as  is  rarely  met  with — at  least,  he  was 
so  to  me ;  for  his  weaknesses  were  as  interesting  as 
his  talents,  and  he  often  indulged  in  expressions 
which  would  have  been  blemishes  in  the  reflections 
of  other  men,  but  which  in  him  often  proved  the 
germs  of  philosophical  imaginings.  He  was  the 
least  qualified  for  any  sort  of  business  of  all  men  1 
have  ever  known;  so  skinless  in  sensibility  as 
respected  himself,  and  so  distrustful  in  his  universal 
apprehensions  of  human  nature,  as  respected  others. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  wild,  though  a  beautiful,  error  of 
nature,  to  endow  a  spirit  with  such  discerning  facul- 
ties, and  yet  render  it  unfit  to  deal  with  mankind. 
But  these  reflections  belong  more  properly  to  a  gene- 
ral estimate  of  his  character,  than  to  the  immediate 
purpose  before  me,  which  was  principally  to  describe 
the  happy  effects  which  the  splendid  reception  of 
Childe  Harold  had  on  his  feelings ;  effects  which, 
however,  did  not  last  long.  He  was  gratified  to  the 
fulness  of  his  hopes  ;  but  the  adulation  was  enjoyed 
to  excess,  and  his  infirmities  were  aggravated  by 


LORD   BYRON. 


171 


the  surfeit.  I  did  not,  however,  see  the  progress  of 
the  change,  as  in  the  course  of  the  summer  I  went 
to  Scotland,  and  soon  after  again  abroad.  But  on 
my  return,  in  the  following  spring,  it  was  very 
obvious. 

I  found  him,  in  one  respect,  greatly  improved; 
there  was  more  of  a  formed  character  about  him ;  he 
was  evidently,  at  the  first  glance,  more  mannered, 
or  endeavouring  to  be  so,  and  easier  with  the  pro- 
prieties of  his  rank ;  but  he  had  risen  in  his  own 
estimation  above  the  honours  so  willingly  paid  to 
his  genius,  and  was  again  longing  for  additional  re- 
nown. Not  content  with  being  acknowledged  as  the 
first  poet  of  the  age,  and  a  respectable  orator  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  he  was  aspiring  to  the  eclat  of  a 
man  of  gallantry ;  so  that  many  of  the  most  ungra- 
cious peculiarities  of  his  temper,  though  brought 
under  better  discipline,  were  again  in  full  activity. 

Considering  how  much  he  was  then  caressed,  I 

ought  to  have  been  proud  of  the  warmth  with  which 

he  received  me.    I  did  not,  however,  so  often  see 

him  as  in  the  previous  year ;  for  I  was  then  on  the 

eve  of  my  marriage,  and  I  should  not  so  soon,  after 

my  return  to  London,  have  probably  renewed  my 

visits,  but  a  foreign  nobleman  of  the  highest  rank, 

who  had  done  me  the  honour  to  treat  me  as  a  friend, 

came  at  that  juncture  to  this  country,  and  knowing 

I  had  been  acquainted  with  Lord  Byron,  he  requested 

me  to  introduce  him  to  his  Lordship.    This  rendered 

a  visit  preliminary  to  the  introduction  necessary ; 

and  so  long  as  my  distinguished  friend  remained  in 

town,  we  again  often  met.    But  after  he  left  the 

country  my  visits  became  few  and  far  between ; 

owing  to  nothing  but  that  change  in  a  man's  pursuits 

and  associates  which  are  among  some  of  the  evils 

of  matrimony.    It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  of 

the  last  visit  I  ever  paid  him,  he  has  made  rather  a 

particular  memorandum.    I  remember  well,  that  it 

was  in  many  respects  an  occasion  not  to  be  at  once 


( •■' 


•i(".' 


Vi 


172 


THE   LIFE   OF 


M 


forgotten;  for,  among  other  things,  after  lighter 
topics,  he  explained  to  me  a  variety  of  tribulations 
in  his  affairs,  and  1  urged  him,  in  consequence,  to 
marry,  with  the  frankness  which  his  confidence  en- 
couraged; subjoining  certain  items  of  other  good 
advice  concerning  a  liaison  which  he  was  supposed 
to  have  formed,  and  which  Mr.  Moore  does  not  ap- 
pear to  have  known,  though  it  was  much  talked  of 
at  the  time. 

During  that  visit  the  youthful  peculiarities  of  his 
temper  and  character  showed  all  their  original  ble- 
mish. But,  as  usual,  when  such  was  the  case,  he 
was  often  more  interesting  than  when  in  his  dis- 
creeter  moods.  He  gave  me  the  copy  of  the  Bride 
of  Abydos,  with  a  very  kind  inscription  on  it,  which 
I  have  already  mentioned ;  but  still  there  was  an 
impression  on  my  mind  that  led  me  to  believe  he 
could  not  have  been  very  well  pleased  with  some 
parts  of  my  counselling.  This,  however,  appears 
not  to  have  been  the  case ;  on  the  contrary,  the  tone 
of  his  record  breathes  something  of  kindness  ;  and 
long  after  I  received  different  reasons  to  believe  his 
recollection  of  me  was  warm  and  friendly. 

When  he  had  retired  to  Genoa,  I  gave  a  gentleman 
a  letter  to  him,  partly  that  I  might  hear  something 
of  his  real  way  of  life,  and  partly  in  the  hope  of 
gratifying  my  friend  by  the  sight  of  one  of  whom 
he  had  heard  so  iimch.  The  reception  from  his 
Lordship  was  flattering  to  me ;  and,  asl  the  account 
of  it  contains  what  I  think  a  characteristic  picture, 
the  reader  will,  I  doubt  not,  be  pleased  to  see  so 
much  of  it  as  may  be  made  public  without  violating 
the  decorum  which  should  always  be  observed  in 
describing  the  incidents  of  private  intercourse,  when 
the  consent  of  all  parties  cannot  be  obtained  to  the 
publication. 

"Dear  Gait,  *^ Edinburgh,  June  3,  1830. 

"  Though  I  shall  always  retain  a  lively  general 


LORD    BYRON. 


173 


$0. 

Ineral 


r€collection  of  my  agreeable  interview  with  Lord 
Byron,  at  Genoa,  in  May,  1823,  so  long  a  time  has 
smce  elapsed  that  much  of  the  aroma  of  the  plea- 
sure has  evaporated,  and  I  can  bui  recall  generali- 
ties. At  that  time  there  was  an  impression  m 
Genoa  tliat  he  was  averse  to  receive  visits  from 
Englishmen,  and  I  was  indeed  advised  not  to  think 
of  calling  on  him,  as  I  might  run  the  risk  of  meet- 
ing with  a  savage  reception.  However,  I  resolved  to 
send  your  note,  and  to  the  surprise  of  every  one  the 
messenger  brought  a  most  polite  answer,  in  which, 
after  expressing  ihc  satisfaction  of  hearing  of  his 
old  friend  and  fellow-traveller,  he  added  that  he 
would  do  himself  the  honour  of  calling  on  me  next 
day,  which  he  accordingly  did  ;  but  owing  to  the 
officious  blundering  of  an  Italian  waiter,  who  men- 
tioned I  was  at  dinner,  his  Lordsh'p  sent  up  his  card 
with  his  compliments  that  he  would  not  deranger 
the  party.  I  was  determined,  however,  that  he 
should  not  escape  me  in  thi9  way,  and  drove  out  to 
his  residence  next  morning,  when,  upon  his  Eng- 
lish valet  taking  up  my  name,  I  was  immediately 
admitted. 

"As  everyone  forms  a  picture  to  himself  of  vpmark- 
able  characters,  I  hrd  depicted  his  Lordship  lu  my 
mind  as  a  tall,  son.bre,  Childe  Harold  pers(^nage, 
tinctured  somewhat  v;'ith  aristocratic  hauteur.  You 
may  therefore  guess  my  surprise  when  the  door 
opened,  and  I  saw  leaning  upon  the  io^k,  a  light 
animated  figure,  xA.i\iQx petite  than  otherwise,  dressed 
in  a  nankeen  hussar-braided  jacket,  trousers  of  the 
same  material,  with  a  white  waistcoat ;  his  counte- 
nance pale,  but  the  complexion  clear  and  healthful, 
with  the  hair  coming  down  in  little  curls  on  each 
side  of  his  fine  forehead. 

"  He  came  towards  me  with  an  easy  cheerfulness 
of  manner,  and  after  some  preliminary  inquiries 
concerning  yourself,  we  entered  into  a  conversation 
which  lasted  two  hours,  in  the  course  of  which  I 

P2 


■•>    t 


174 


THE   LIFE    OF 


felt  myself  perfectly  at  ease,  from  his  Lordship's 
natural  and  simple  manners;  indeed,  so  much 
so,  that,  forgetting  ail  my  anticipations,  I  found 
myself  conversing  with  him  with  as  fluent  m  in- 
tercourse of  mind  as  I  ever  experienced,  even  with 
yourself. 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  at  present  to  overtake  a 
detail  of  what  passed,  but  as  it  produced  a  kind  of 
scene,  I  may  mention  one  incident. 

"Having  remarked  that  in  a  long  course  of 
desultory  reading,  I  had  read  most  of  what  had  been 
said  by  English  travellers  concerning  Italy ;  yet,  on 
coming  to  it  I  found  there  was  no  country  of  which 
I  had  less  accurate  notions :  that  among  other 
things  I  was  much  struck  with  the  harshness  of  the 
language.  He  seemed  to  jerk  at  this,  and  imme- 
diately observed,  that  perhaps  in  going  rapidly 
through  the  country,  I  might  not  have  had  many 
opportunities  of  hearing  it  politely  spoken.  *  Mow,' 
said  he, '  there  are  supposed  to  be  nineteen  dialccits 
of  the  Italian  language,  and  I  shall  i^t  you  hear  a 
lady  speak  the  principal  of  them,  w.*v.  xS  considered 
to  do  it  very  well.'  I  pricked  up  my  ears  at  hearing 
this,  as  I  considered  it  would  afford  me  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  the  far-famed  Countess  Guiccioli. 
His  Lordship  immediately  rose  and  left'  the  apart- 
ment, returning  in  the  course  of  a  minute  or  two 
leading  in  the  lady,  and  while  arranging  Ciiairs  for 
t\\e  trio,  he  said  to  me, '  I  shall  make  her  speak  each 
of  the  principal  dialects,  but  you  are  not  to  mind  how 
I  pronounce,  for  1  do  not  speak  Italian  weF  '  After 
the  scene  had  been  performed  he  resumed  to  me, 

*  now  what  do  you  think  V  To  which  I  answered, 
that  my  opinion  still  remained  unaltered.  He 
seemed  at  this  to  fall  into  a  little  revery,  and  then 
«aid,  abruptly,  ^  Why  't  is  very  odd,  Moore  thought 
tlie  same.'    *  Does  your  Lordship  mean  Tom  Moore  V 

*  Yes.'  *  All,  then,  my  Lord,  I  shall  adhere  with  more 
pertinacity  to  my  opinion,  when  I  hear  that  a  man  of 


■«r 


LORD    BYRON. 


175 


his  exquisite  taste  in  poetry  and  harmony  was  also 
of  that  opinion.' 

"  You  will  be  asking  what  1  thought  of  the  lady ; 
I  had  certainly  heard  much  of  her  high  personal 
attractions,  but  all  I  can  say  is,  that  in  my  eyes  her 
graces  did  not  rank  above  mediocrity.  They  were 
youth,  plumpness,  and  good-nature." 


.r 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A  Miff  with  Lord  Byron— Remarkable  Coincidences— Plagmrisms  of 

his  Lordship. 

There  is  a  curious  note  in  the  memoranda  which 
Lord  Byron  kept  in  the  year  1813,  that  I  should  not 
pass  unnoticed,  because  it  refers  to  myself,  and  more- 
over is  characteristic  of  the  excoriated  sensibility 
with  which  his  Lordship  felt  every  thing  that  touched 
or  affected  him  or  his. 

When  I  had  read  the  Bride  of  Abydos,I  wrote  to 
him  my  opinion  of  it,  and  mentioned  that  there  was 
a  remarkable  coincidence  in  the  story,  with  a  matter 
in  which  I  had  been  interested.  1  have  no  copy  of 
the  letter,  and  I  forget  the  expressions  employed, 
but  Lord  Byron  seemed  to  think  they  implied  that  he 
had  taken  the  story  from  something  of  mine. 

The  note  is : 

"  Gait  says  there  is  a  coincidence  between  the  first 
part  of  *  The  Bride'  and  some  story  of  his,  whether 
published  or  not,  I  know  not,  never  having  seen  it. 
He  is  almost  the  last  person  on  whom  any  one  would 
commit  literary  larceny,  and  I  am  not  conscious  of 
any  witting  thefts  on  any  of  the  genus.  As  to  origi- 
nality, all  pretensions  are  ludicrous;  there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun." 

It  is  sufficiently  clear  that  he  was  offended  with 
what  1  had  said,  and  was  somewhat  excited.    I  liave 


.',1 . .  r 


i 


176 


THE    LIFE    OF 


1? 


not  been  able  at  present  to  find  his  answer  to  my 
letter,  but  it  would  appear  by  the  subjoined  that  he 
had  written  to  me  something  which  led  me  to  i'liagine 
he  was  offended  at  my  observations,  and  that  1  had 
in  consequence  deprecated  his  wrath. 

"  My  dear  Gait,  "  Dec.  11,  1813. 

"  There  was  no  offence — there  could  be  none.  I 
thought  it  by  no  means  impossible  that  we  might 
have  hit  on  something  similar,  particularly  as  you 
arc  a  dramatist,  and  was  anxious  to  assure  you  of 
tho  truth,  viz.  that  I  had  not  wittingly  seized  upon 
plot,  sentiment,  or  incident ;  and  I  am  very  glad  that 
f  have  not  in  any  respect  trenched  upon  your  sub- 
y^cts.  Something  still  more  singular  is,  that  the 
jfst  part,  where  you  have  found  a  coincidence  in 
j-orY>e  events  within  your  observations  on  life,  was 
•rawn  from  observation  of  mine  also,  and  [  meant  to 
have  gone  on  with  the  story,  but  on  second  thoughts, 
I  thought  myself  two  centuries  at  least  too  late  for 
the  subject ;  which,  though  admitting  of  very  pow- 
erful feeling  and  description,  yet  is  not  adapted  for 
this  age,  at  least  this  country.  Though  the  finest 
works  of  tho  Creeks,  one  of  Schiller's  and  Alfieri's, 
>  in  modern  times,  besides  several  of  our  old  (and 
best)  dramatists,  have  been  grounded  on  incidents 
of  a  similar  cast,  I  therefore  altered  it  as  you  per- 
ceive, and  in  so  doing  have  weakened  the  whole, 
by  interrupting  the  train  of  thought ;  and  in  com- 
position I  do  not  think  second  thoughts  are  the 
best,  though  second  expressions  may  improve  the 
first  ideas. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  other  men  f  .:!  towards  those 
they  have  met  abroad,  but  to  me  there  seems  a  kind 
of  tie  established  between  all  who  have  met  toge- 
ther in  a  foreign  country,  as  if  we  had  met  in  a  state 
of  pre-existence,  and  were  talking  over  a  life  that 
has  ceased  ;  but  I  always  look  forward  to  renewing 
mv  travels ;  and  though  you,  I  think,  are  now  sta- 


LORD    BYRON. 


177 


tionary,  if  I  can  at  all  forward  your  pursuits  there 
as  well  as  here,  I  shall  be  truly  glad  in  the  oppor- 
tunity.   Ever  yours  very  sincerely, 

«  B. 


"  P.S.  I  believe  I  leave  town  for  a  day  or  two  on 
Monday,  ))ut  after  that  I  am  alwaj  s  at  home,  and 
happy  to  see  you  till  half-past  two." 

This  letter  was  dated  on  Saturday,  the  11th  of 
September,  1813.  On  Sunday,  the  12th,  he  made  the 
following  other  note  in  his  memorandum  book : 

"  By  Gait's  answer,  I  find  it  is  some  story  in  real 
life,  and  not  any  work  with  which  my  late  composi- 
tion coincides.  It  is  still  more  singular,  for  mine  is 
drawn  from  existence  also." 

The  most  amusing  part  of  this  little  fracas  is  the 
denial  of  his  Lordship,  as  to  pilfering  the  thoughts 
and  fancies  of  others ;  for  it  so  happens,  that  the 
first  passage  of  the  Bride  of  Abydos,  the  poem  in 
question,  is  almost  a  literal  and  unacknowledged 
translation  from  Goethe,  which  was  pointed  out 
in  some  of  the  periodicals  soon  after  the  work 
was  published. 

Then,  as  to  his  not  thieving  from  me  or  mine,  I 
believe  the  fact  to  be  as  he  has  stated ;  but  there  are 
singular  circumstances  connected  with  some  of  his 
other  productions,  of  which  the  account  is  at  least 
curious. 

On  leaving  England  I  began  to  write  a  poem  in 
the  Spenserian  measure.  It  was  called  The  Un- 
known, and  was  intended  to  describe,  in  narrating 
the  voyages  and  adventures  of  a  pilgrim,  who  had  em- 
barked for  the  Holy  Land,  the  scenes  I  expected  to 
visit.  I  was  occasionally  engaged  in  this  composi- 
tion during  the  passage  with  Lord  Byron  from  Gib- 
raltar to  Malta,  and  he  knew  what  I  was  about.  In 
stating  this,  I  beg  to  be  distinctly  understood,  as  in 
no  way  whatever  intending  to  insinuate  that  this 


',!      r 


■h 


^  ! 


178 


THE    LIFE    OF 


work  had  any  influence  on  the  composition  of  Childe 
Harold's  Pilgrimage,  which  Lord  Byron  began  to 
write  in  Albania ;  but  it  must  be  considered  as  some- 
thing extraordinary,  that  the  two  works  should  have 
been  so  similar  in  plan,  and  in  the  structure  of  the 
verse.  His  Lordship  never  saw  my  attempt  that  I 
know  of,  nor  did  I  his  poem  until  it  was  printed.  It 
is  needless  to  add,  that  beyond  the  plan  and  verse 
there  was  no  other  similarity  between  the  two 
works  ;  I  wish  there  had  been. 

His  Lordship  has  published  a  poem,  called  The 
Curse  of  Minerva,  the  subject  of  which  is  the  ven- 
geance of  the  goddess  on  Lord  Elgin  for  the  rape 
of  the  Parthenon.  It  has  so  happened  that  I 
wrote  at  Athens  a  burlesque  poem  on  nearly  the 
same  subject  (mine  relates  to  the  vengeance  of  all 
the  gods)  which  I  called  the  Atheuiad ;  the  manu- 
script was  sent  to  his  Lordship  in  Asia  Minor,  and 
returned  to  me  through  Mr.  Hobhouse.  His  Curse 
of  Minerva,  I  saw  for  the  first  time  in  1828,  in  Ga- 
lignani's  edition  of  his  works. 

In  the  Giaour,  which  he  published  a  short  time  be- 
fore the  Bride  of  Abydos,  he  has  this  passage,  de- 
scriptive of  the  anxiety  with  which  the  mother  of 
Hassan  looks  out  for  the  arrival  of  her  son  : 

The  browsing  camels'  bells  are  tinkling — 

His  mother  look'd  from  her  lattice  high ; 
She  saw  the  dews  of  eve  besprinkling 

The  parterre  green  beneath  her  eye  : 
She  saw  the  planets  faintly  twinkling — 

'T  is  twilight — sure  his  train  is  nigh 
She  could  not  rest  in  the  garden  bower, 
But  gazed  through  the  grate  of  his  steepest  tower : 
Why  comes  he  not — and  his  steeds  are  fleet — 
Nor  shrink  they  from 'the  summer  heat? 
Why  sends  not  ihe  bridegroom  his  promised  giftj 
Is  his  heart  more  cold  or  his  barb  less  swift  ? 

His  Lordship  was  well  read  in  the  Bible,  and  the 
book  of  Judges,  chap.  5,  and  verse  28,  has  the  fol- 
lowing passage  it — 

"  The  mother  of  Sisera  looked  out  at  a  window, 


1 


LORD  BYRON. 


179 


be- 

de- 

of 


and  cried  throun^h  the  lattice,  Why  is  his  chariot 
so  long  in  coming;  why  tarry  the  wheels  of  his 
chariot?" 

It  was,  indeed,  an  early  trick  of  his  Lordship  to 
filch  good  things.  In  tne  lamentation  for  Kirke 
White,  in  which  he  compares  him  to  an  eagle 
wounded  by  an  arrow  feathered  from  his  own 
wing,  he  says, 

So  the  struck  eagle,  strctch'd  upon  the  plain, 
No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
ViewM  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart  . 
And  wing'd  the  shaft  that  (luiver'd  in  his  heart. 

The  ancients  have  certainly  stolen  the  best  ideas 
of  the  moderns ;  this  very  thought  may  be  found  in 
the  works  of  that  ancient-modern,  Waller : 

That  eagle's  fate  and  mine  are  one, 
Which  on  the  shaft  that  made  him  die, 

Espied  a  feather  ol"  his  own 
Wherewith  he  wont  to  soar  on  hiph. 

His  Lordship  disdained  to  commit  any  larceny  on 
me ;  and  no  doubt  the  following  passage  from  the 
Giaour  is  perfectly  original : 

It  is  as  if  the  dead  could  feel 
The  icy  worm  around  them  steal ;    ' 
And  shudder  as  the  reptiles  creep 
To  revel  o'er  their  rotting  sleep. 
Without  the  power  to  scare  away 
The  cold  consumers  of  their  clay. 

I  do  not  claim  any  paternity  in  these  lines :  but 
not  the  most  judicious  action  of  all  my  youth  was 
to  publish  certain  dramatic  sketches,  and  his  Lord- 
ship had  the  printed  book  in  his  possession  long  be- 
fore the  Giaour  was  published,  and  may  have  read 
the  following  passage  in  a  dream,  which  was  intended 
to  be  very  hideous  : 


idow, 


-Then  did  I  hear  around 


r  I 


I       « 


% 


t  ,  ,w 


'I  '1    ' 


Ji 


ii.'i 


■}.'.  I 


The  churme  and  chirruping  of  busy  reptilc» 


180  THE    LIFE    OF 

At  hidt<ou8  banquet  on  the  royal  dead  :— 
Full  80011  mcthought  the  loathsoriie  epicures 
Came  thick  on  mo,  and  underneath  my  shroud 
I  felt  the  many-foot  and  beetle  creep, 
And  on  my  breast  the  cold  worm  coil  and  crawl. 

However,  I  have  said  quite  enough  on  this  subject, 
both  as  respects  myself  and  his  seeming  plagiarisms, 
which  might  be  multiplied  to  legions.  Such  occa- 
sional accidental  imitations  are  not  things  of  much 
importance.  All  poets,  and  authors  in  general,  avail 
themselves  of  their  reading  and  knowledge  to  enhance 
the  interest  of  their  works.  It  can  only  be  considered 
as  one  of  Lord  Byron's  spurts  of  spleen,  that  he  felt 
so  much  about  a  "  coincidence,"  which  ought  not  to 
have  disturbed  him ;  but  it  may  be  thought  by  the 
notice  taken  of  it,  that  it  disturbs  myself  more  than 
it  really  does ;  and  that  it  would  have  been  enough 
to  have  merely  said — ^Perhaps,  when  some  friend  is 
hereafter  doing  as  indulgently  for  me,  the  same  kind 
of  task  that  I  have  undertaken  for  Byron,  there  may 
be  found  arnor.g  my  memoranda  notes  as  little  flat- 
tering to  his  Lordship,  as  those  in  his  concerning 
me.  I  hope,  however,  that  friend  will  have  more 
respect  for  my  memory  than  to  imitate  the  taste  of 
Mr.  Moore. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

Lord  Byron,  in  1813— 7%c  Ladfs  Tragedy— Miss  Milbanke— Growing 
Uneasiness  of  Lord  Byron^s  Mind— The  Friafs  Ghost—The  Marriage 
— A  Member  of  the  Drury-lane  Committee — EnUtarrassed  Affairs— 
The  Separation. 

The  year  1813  was  perhaps  the  period  of  all  Lord 
Byron's  life  in  which  he  was  seen  to  most  advantage. 
The  fame  of  Childe  Harold  was  then  in  its  brightest 
noon;  and  in  that  year  he  produced  the  Giaour  and 
the  Bride  of  Abydos — compositions  not  only  of  equal 


i 


t'  \ 


LORD    BYRON. 


181 


power,  but  even  tinted  with  superior  beauties.  He 
was  himself  soothed  by  the  full  enjoyment  of  hig 
political  rank  and  station ;  and  tliough  his  manners 
and  character  had  not  exactly  answered  to  the  stern 
and  stately  imaginations  wliich  had  been  formed 
of  his  dispositions  and  appearance,  still  he  was  ac- 
knowledged to  be  no  common  man,  n-^d  his  com- 
pany in  consequence  was  eagerly  co   !  led. 

It  forms  no  part  of  the  plan  of  tin  '  k  ♦o  repeat 
the  gossip  and  tattle  of  private  soci  mi  occur- 
rences happened  to  Lord  13yron  whicii  ,;;i-  d  both, 
and  some  of  them  cannot  well  be  passed  over  unno- 
ticed. One  of  these  took  place  during  the  spring  of 
this  year,  and  having  been  a  subject  of  newspaper 
remark,  it  may  with  less  impropriety  be  mentioned 
than  others  which  were  more  indecorously  made  the 
topics  of  general  discussion.  The  incident  alluded 
to  was  an  extravagant  scene  enacted  by  a  lady  of 
high  rank,  at  a  rout  given  by  Lady  Heathcote  ;  in 
which,  in  revenge,  as  it  was  reported,  for  havhjg  been 
rejected  by  Lord  Byron,  she  made  a  suicidal  attempt 
with  an  instrument,  which  scarcely  penetrated,  if 
it  could  even  inflict  any  permanent  mark  on,  the  skin. 

The  insane  attachment  of  this  eccentric  lady  to 
his  Lordship  was  well  known :  insane  is  the  only 
epithet  that  can  be  applied  to  the  actions  of  a  mar- 
ried woman,  who,  in  the  disguise  of  her  page,  flung 
herself  to  a  man,  who,  as  she  told  a  friend  of  mine, 
was  ashamed  to  be  in  love  with  her  because  she 
was  not  beautiful — an  expression  at  once  curious 
and  just,  evincing  a  shrewd  perception  of  the  springs 
of  his  Lordship's  conduct,  and  the  acuteness  blended 
with  phrensy  and  talent  which  distinguished  herself. 
Lord  Byron  unquestionably  at  that  time  cared  little 
for  her.  In  showing  me  her  picture,  some  two  or 
three  days  after  the  affair,  and  laughing  at  the  absurd- 
ity of  it,  he  bestowed  on  her  the  endearing  diminu- 
tive of  vixen,  with  a  hard-hearted  adjective  that  I 
judiciously  omit. 

Q 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0     l^l^  1^ 


1.1 


itt 

u 


2.0 

^|U  116. 


I 


HiolDgraphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WMT  MAIN  STMH 

WIUTIR.N.Y.  14SM 

(71*)t7a-4S03 


v.  \ 


"  i 


182 


THE    LIFE    OF 


I) 


m. 


The  immediate  cause  of  this  tragical  flourish  wa» 
never  very  well  understood ;  but  in  the  course  of 
the  evening  she  had  made  several  attempts  to  fasten 
on  his  Lordship,  and  was  shunned:  certain  it  is, 
she  had  not,  like  Burke  in  the  House  of  Commons, 
premeditatedly  brought  a  dagger  in  her  reticule,  on 
purpose  for  the  scene ;  but,  seeing  herself  an  object 
of  scorn,  she  seized  the  first  weapon  she  could  find 
— some  said  a  pair  of  scissors — others,  more  scan- 
dalously, a  broken  jelly-glass,  and  attempted  an  in- 
cision of  the  jugular,  to  the  consternation  of  all  the 
dowagers,  and  the  pathetic  admiration  of  every  Miss 
who  witnessed  or  heard  of  the  rapture. 

Lord  Byron  at  the  time  was  in  another  room,  talk- 
ing with  Prince  K ,  when  Lord  P came,  with 

a  face  full  of  consternation,  and  told  them  what  had 
happened.  The  cruel  poet,  instead  of  being  agitated 
by  the  tidings,  or  standing  in  the  smallest  degree  in 
need  of  a  smelling-bottle,  knitted  his  scowl,  and  said, 
with  a  contemptuous  indifference, "  It  is  only  a  trick." 
All  things  considered,  he  was  perhaps  not  uncharita- 
ble ;  and  a  man  of  less  vanity  would  have  felt  pretty 
much  as  his  Lordship  appeared  to  do  on  the  occasion. 
The  whole  affair  was  eminently  ridiculous;  and 
what  increased  the  absurdity  was  a  letter  she  ad- 
dressed to  a  friend  of  mine  on  the  subject,  and 
which  he  thought  too  good  to  be  reserved  only  for 
his  own  particular  study. 

It  was  in  this  year  that  Lord  Byron  first  proposed 
for  Miss  Milbanke  ;  having  been  urged  by  several 
of  his  friends  to  marry,  that  lady  was  specially  re- 
commended to  him  for  a  wife.  It  has  been  alleged, 
that  he  deeply  resented  her  rejection  of  his  proposal ; 
and  I  doubt  not,  in  the  first  instance,  his  vanity  may 
have  been  a  little  piqued ;  but  as  he  cherished  no 
very  animated  attachment  to  her,  and  moreover,  as 
she  enjoyed  no  celebrity  in  public  opinion  to  make 
the  rejection  important,  the  resentment  was  not,  I 
am  persuaded,  either  of  an  intense  or  vindictive  kind. 


ourish  wa» 
course  of 
is  Uy  fasten 
irtuia  it  is. 
Commons, 
reticule,  on 
if  an  object 
i  could  find 
more  scan- 
pted  an  in- 
n  of  all  the 
every  Miss 

room,  talk- 
.  came,  with 
n  what  had 
ing  agitated 
5t  degree  in 
ivl,  and  said, 
nly  a  trick." 
>t  uncharitd- 
[e  felt  pretty 
le  occasion, 
ulous ;  and 
tter  she  ad- 
jubject,  and 
ired  only  for 

'st  proposed 
by  several 
pecially  re- 
een  alleged, 
is  proposal ; 
vanity  may 
herished  no 
iioreover,  as 
ion  to  make 
,  was  not,  I 
lictive  kind. 


LORD   BYRON. 


183 


On  the  contrary,  he  has  borne  testimonj'  to  the  re- 
spect in  which  he  held  her  character  and  accom- 
plishments ;  and  an  incidental  remark  in  his  journal, 
"  I  shall  be  in  love  with  her  again,  if  I  do  n't  take 
care,"  is  proof  enough  that  his  anger  was  not  of  a 
very  fierce  or  long-lived  kind. 

The  account  ascribed  to  him  of  his  introduction 
to  Miss  Milbanke,  and  the  history  of  their  attach- 
ment, ought  not  to  be  omitted,  because  it  serves  to 
illustrate,  in  some  degree,  the  state  of  his  feelings 
towards  her,  and  is  so  probable,  that  I  doubt  not  it 
is  in  the  main  correct : — 

"  The  first  time  of  my  seeing  Miss  Milbanke  was 
at  Lady  ****'s.  It  was  a  fatal  day  ;  and  I  remem- 
ber, that  in  going  up  stairs  I  stumbled,  and  remarked 
to  Moore,  who  accompanied  me,  that  it  was  a  bad 
omen.  I  ought  to  have  taken  the  warning.  On  en- 
tering the  room,  I  observed  a  young  lady  more  sim- 
ply dressed  than  the  rest  of  the  assembly  sitting 
alone  upon  a  sofa.  I  took  her  for  a  female  compa- 
nion, and  asked  if  I  was  right  in  my  conjecture. 
*  She  is  a  great  heiress,'  said  he,  in  a  whisper,  that 
became  lower  as  he  proceeded,  *you  had  better  marry 
her,  and  repair  the  old  place,  Newstead.' 

"There  was  something  piquant,  and  what  we  term 
pretty,  in  Miss  Milbanke.  Her  features  were  small 
and  feminine,  though  not  regular.  She  had  the  fairest 
skin  imaginable.  Her  figure  was  perfect  for  her 
height,  and  there  was  a  simplicity,  a  retired  modesty 
about  her,  which  was  very  characteristic,  and  formed 
a  happy  contrast  to  the  cold  artificial  formality 
and  studied  stiflfness  which  is  called  fashion.  She 
interested  me  exceedingly.  1  became  daily  more 
attached  to  her,  and  it  ended  in  my  making  her  a 
proposal,  that  was  rejected.  Her  refusal  was 
couched  in  terms  which  could  not  offend  me.  I 
was,  besides,  persuaded,  that  in  declining  my  offer, 
she  was  governed  by  the  influence  of  her  mother ; 
and  was  the  more  confirmed  in  my  opinion,  by  her 


4 


184 


THE   LIFE   OF 


k 

ir 


!-:.■*? 


1 


reviving  our  correspondence  herself  twelve  months 
after.  The  tenor  of  her  letter  was,  that,  although 
she  could  not  love  me,  she  desired  my  friendship. 
Friendship  is  a  dangerous  word  for  young  ladies ;  it 
is  love  full-fledged,  and  waiting  for  a  fine  day  to  fly." 

But  Lord  Byron  possessed  these  sort  of  irrepressi- 
ble predilections — was  so  much  the  agent  of  im- 
pulses, that  he  could  not  keep  long  in  unison  with 
the  world,  or  in  harmony  with  his  friends.  Without 
malice,  or  the  instigation  of  any  ill  spirit,  he  was 
continually  provoking  malignity  and  revenge.  His 
verses  on  the  Princess  Charlotte  weeping,  and  his 
other  merciless  satire  on  her  father,  begot  him  no 
friends,  and  armed  the  hatred  of  his  enemies. 
There  was,  indeed,  something  like  ingratitude  in  the 
attack  on  the  Regent,  for  his  Royal  Highness  had 
been  particularly  civil ;  had  intimated  a  wish  to  have 
him  introduced  to  him ;  and  Byron,  fond  of  the  dis- 
tinction, spoke  of  it  with  a  sense  of  gratification. 
These  instances,  as  well  as  others,  of  gratuitous 
spleen,  <  nly  justified  the  misrepresentations  which 
had  been  insinuated  against  himself,  and  what  was 
humour  in  his  nature,  was  ascribed  to  vice  in  his 
principles. 

Before  the  year  was  at  an  end,  his  popularity  was 
evidently  beginning  to  wane :  of  this  he  was  con- 
scious himself,  and  braved  the  frequent  attacks  on 
his  character  and  genius  with  an  affectation  of  in- 
difference, under  which  those  who  had  a'  ob- 
served the  singular  associations  of  hisreccil  ..lons 
and  ideas,  must  have  discerned  the  symptoms  of  a 
strange  disease.  He  was  tainted  with  an  Herodian 
malady  of  the  mind  :  his  thoughts  were  often  hate- 
ful to  himself ;  but  there  was  an  ecstasy  in  the  con- 
ception, as  if  delight  could  be  mingled  with  horror. 
I  think,  however,  he  struggled  to  master  the  fatality, 
and  that  his  resolution  to  marry  was  dictated  by  an 
honourable  desire  to  give  hostages  to  society,  against 
the  wild  wilfulness  of  his  imagination. 


ill 


LORD   BVRON. 


185 


It  is  a  curious  and  a  mystical  fact,  that  at  the  period 
to  which  I  am  alluding,  and  a  very  short  time,  only  a 
little  month,  before  he  successfully  solicited  the 
hand  of  Miss  Milbanke,  being  at  Newstead,  he  fan- 
cied that  he  saw  the  ghost  of  the  monk  which  is 
supposed  to  haunt  the  abbey,  and  to  make  its  omi- 
nous appearan  fie  when  misfortune  or  death  impends 
over  the  master  of  the  mansion. — The  story  of  the 
apparition  in  the  sixteenth  canto  of  Don  Juan  is  de- 
rived from  this  family  legend,  and  Norman  Abbey, 
in  the  thirteenth  of  the  same  poem,  is  a  rich  and 
elaborate  description  of  Newstead. 

After  his  proposal  to  Miss  Milbanke  had  been  ac- 
cepted, a  considerable  time,  nearly  three  months, 
elapsed  before  the  marriage  was  completed,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  embarrassed  condition  in  which, 
when  the  necessary  settlements  were  to  be  made,  he 
found  his  affairs.  This  state  of  things,  with  the  pre- 
vious unhappy  controversy  with  himself,  and  anger 
at  the  world,  was  ill-calculated  to  gladden  his  nup- 
tials: but,  besides  these  real  evils,  his  mind  was 
awed  with  gloomy  presentiments,  a  shadow  of  some 
advancing  misfortune  darkened  his  spirit,  and  the 
ceremony  was  performed  with  sacrificial  feelings, 
and  those  dark  and  chilling  circumstances,  which  he 
has  so  touchingly  described  in  the  Dream : — 

I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar  with  a  gentle  bride ; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  boyhood : — as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude ;  and  then— 
As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced— and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  faltering  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reeled  around  him :  he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been—' 
Hut  the  old  mansion  and  the  accustom'd  hall, 
And  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the  jtlace, 

Q2 


!  I 


f^l    -# 


186  THE    LIFE    OF 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour 
And  her,  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back. 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light. 

This  is  very  affectingly  described ;  and  his  prose 
description  bears  testimony  to  its  correctness.  "  It 
had  been  predicted  by  Mrs.  Williams,  that  twenty- 
seven  was  to  be  a  dangerous  age  for  me.  The  for- 
tunetelling  witch  was  right ;  it  was  destined  to  prove 
so.  I  shall  never  forget  the  2d  of  January,  1815, 
Lady  Byron  was  the  only  unconcerned  person  pre- 
sent ;  Lady  Noel,  her  mother,  cried ;  I  trembled  like 
a  leaf,  made  the  wrong  responses,  and  after  the  cere- 
mony called  her  Miss  Milbanke. 

"  There  is  a  singular  history  attached  to  the  ring. 
The  very  day  the  match  was  concluded  a  ring  of  my 
mother's,  that  had  been  lost,  was  dug  up  by  the  gar- 
dener at  Newstead.  I  thought  it  was  sent  on  pur- 
pose for  the  wedding;  but  my  mother's  marriage 
had  not  been  a  fortunate  one,  and  this  ring  was 
doomed  to  be  the  seal  of  an  unhappier  union  still. 

"  After  the  ordeal  was  over,  we  set  off  for  a  coun- 
try-seat of  Sir  Ralph's  (Lady  B.'s  father),  and  I  was 
surprised  at  the  arrangements  for  the  journey,  and 
somewhat  out  of  humour,  to  find  the  lady's  maid 
stuck  between  me  and  my  bride.  It  was  rather  too 
early  to  assume  the  husband;  so  I  was  forced  to 
submit,  but  it  was  not  with  a  very  good  grace.  I 
have  been  accused  of  saying,  on  getting  into  the  car- 
riage, that  I  had  married  Lady  Byron  out  of  spite, 
and  because  she  had  refused  me  twice.  Though  I 
was  for  a  moment  vexed  at  her  prudery,  or  whatever 
you  may  choose  to  call  it,  if  I  had  made  so  ur  cava- 
lier, not  to  say  brutal,  a  speech,  I  am  convinced  Lady 
Byron  would  instantly  have  left  the  carriage  to  me 
and  the  maid.  She  had  spirit  enough  to  have  done 
so,  and  would  properly  have  resented  the  affront. 
Our  honeymoon  was  not  all  sunshine;  it  had  its 
clouds. 


LORD    BYRON. 


187 


"  I  was  not  so  young  when  my  father  died,  but 
that  I  perfectly  remember  him,  and  had  a  very  early 
horror  of  matrimony  from  the  sijpfht  of  domestic 
broils :  this  feeling  came  over  me  very  strongly  at 
my  wedding.  Something  whispered  me  that  I  was 
sealing  my  own  death-warrant.  I  am  a  great  be- 
liever in  presentiments :  Socrates's  demon  was  not 
a  fiction ;  Monk  Lewis  had  his  monitor,  and  Napo- 
leon many  warnings.  At  the  last  moment  I  would 
have  retreated,  could  I  have  done  so;  I  called  to 
mind  a  friend  of  mine,  who  had  married  a  young, 
beautiful,  and  rich  girl,  and  yet  was  miserable ;  he 
had  strongly  urged  me  against  putting  my  neck  in 
the  same  yoke." 

For  some  time  after  the  marriage  things  went  on 
in  the  usual  matrimonial  routine,  until  he  was  chosen 
into  the  managing  committee  of  Drury-lane ;  an  office 
in  which,  had  he  possessed  the  slightest  degree  of 
talent  for  business,  he  might  have  done  much  good. 
It  was  justly  expected  that  the  illiterate  presumption 
which  had  so  long  deterred  poetical  genius  from  ap- 
pror*.:^hing  the  stage,  would  have  shrunk  abashed 
from  before  him ;  but  he  either  felt  not  the  import- 
ance of  the  duty  he  had  been  called  to  perform,  or, 
what  is  more  probable,  yielding  to  the  allurements 
of  the  moment,  forgot  that  duty,  in  the  amusement 
which  he  derived  from  the  talents  and  peculiarities 
of  the  player s.  No  situation  could  be  more  unfit  for 
a  man  of  his  temperament,  than  one  which  exposed 
him  t()  form  intimacies  with  persons  whose  profes- 
sion, almost  necessarily,  leads  them  to  undervalue 
the  domestic  virtues. 

It  is  said,  that  the  course  of  life  into  which  he  was 
drawn  after  he  joined  the  managing  committee  of 
Drury-lane  was  not  in  unison  with  the  methodical 
habits  of  Lady  Byron.  But  independently  of  out- 
door causes  of  connubial  discontent  and  incompati- 
bility of  temper,  their  domestic  affairs  were  falling 
into  confusion. 


'  I 


•I  .!H 


ilii! 


i 


I  u 


188 


THE   LIFE   OF 


"My  income  at  this  period,"  says  Lord  Bjnron, 
"  was  small,  and  somewhat  bespoken.  We  had  a 
house  in  town,  gave  dinner-parties,  had  separate 
carriages,  and  launched  into  every  sort  of  extrava- 
gance. This  could  not  last  long;  my  wife's  ten 
thousand  pounds  soon  melted  away.  I  was  beset  by 
duns,  and  at  length  an  execution  was  levied,  and  the 
bailiffs  put  in  possession  of  the  very  beds  we  had  to 
sleep  on.  This  was  no  very  agreeable  state  of  af- 
fairs, no  very  pleasant  scene  for  Lady  Byron  to  wit- 
ness ;  and  it  was  agreed  she  should  pay  her  father  a 
visit  till  the  storm  had  blown  ov<er,  and  some 
arrangement  had  been  made  with  my  creditors." 
From  this  visit  her  Ladyship  never  returned ;  a  sepa- 
ration took  place ;  but  too  much  has  been  said  to  the 
world  respecting  it,  and  I  have  no  taste  for  the  sub- 
ject. Whatever  was  the  immediate  cause,  the  event 
itself  was  not  of  so  rare  a  kind  as  to  deserve  that 
the  attention  of  the  public  should  be  indelicately 
courted  to  it. 

Beyond  all  question,  however.  Lord  Byron's  no- 
tions of  connubial  obligations  were  rather  philoso- 
phical. "  There  are,"  said  he  to  Captain  Parry, 
"  so  many  undefinable  and  nameless,  and  not  to  be 
named,  causes  of  dislike,  aversion,  and  disgust  in 
the  matrimonial  state,  that  it  is  always  impossible 
for  the  public,  or  the  friends  of  the  parties,  to  judge 
between  man  and  wife.  Theirs  is  a  relation  about 
which  nobody  but  themselves  can  form  a  correct 
idea,  or  have  any  right  to  speak.  As  long  as  nei- 
ther party  commits  gross  injustice  towards  the 
other ;  as  long  as  neither  the  woman  nor  the  man  is 
guilty  of  any  offence  which  is  injurious  to  the  com- 
munity; as  long  as  the  husband  provides  for  his 
offspring,  and  secures  the  public  against  the  dangers 
arising  from  their  neglected  education,  or  from  the 
charge  of  supporting  them ;  by  what  right  does  it 
censure  him  for  ceasing  to  dwell  under  the  same 
roof  with  a  woman,  who  is  to  him,  because  he 


LORD   BYRON. 


189 


»» 


knows  her,  while  others  do  not,  an  object  of  loath- 
ing ?  Can  any  thing  be  more  monstrous,  than  for 
the  public  voice  to  compel  individuals  who  dislike 
each  other  to  continue  their  cohabitation?  This  is 
at  least  the  effect  of  its  interfering  with  a  relation- 
ship, of  which  it  has  no  possible  means  of  judging. 
It  does  not  indeed  drag  a  man  to  a  womai's  bed  by 
physical  force,  but  it  does  exert  a  moral  force  con- 
tinually and  effectively  to  accomplish  the  same  pur- 
pose. Nobody  can  escape  this  force,  but  those  who 
are  too  high  or  those  who  are  too  low  for  public 
opinion  to  reach ;  or  those  hypocrites  who  are,  before 
others,  the  loudest  in  their  approbation  of  the  empty 
and  unmeaning  forms  of  society,  that  they  may 
securely  indulge  all  their  propensities  in  secret." 

In  the  course  of  the  conversation,  in  which  he  is 
represented  to  have  stated  these  opinions,  he  added 
what  I  have  pleasure  in  quoting,  because  the  senti- 
ments are  generous  in  respect  to  his  wife,  and 
strikingly  characteristic  of  himself: — 

"  Lady  Byron  has  a  liberal  mind,  particularly  as 
to  religious  opinions :  and  I  wish  when  I  married 
her  that  I  had  possessed  the  same  command  over 
myself  that  I  now  do.  Had  I  possessed  a  little 
more  wisdom  and  more  forbearance,  we  might  have 
been  happy.  I  wished,  when  I  was  just  married  to 
have  remained  in  the  country,  particularly  till  my 
pecuniary  embarrassments  were  over.  I  knew  the 
society  of  London ;  I  knew  the  characters  of  many 
who  are  called  ladies,  with  whom  Lady  Byron 
would  necessarily  have  to  associate,  and  I  dreaded 
her  contact  with  them.  But  I  have  too  much  of  my 
mother  about  me  to  be  dictated  to ;  I  like  freedom 
from  constraint;  I  hate  artificial  regulations:  my 
conduct  has  always  been  dictated  by  my  own  feel- 
ings, and  Lady  Byron  was  quite  the  creature  of 
rules.  She  was  not  permitted  either  to  ride,  or  run, 
or  walk,  but  as  the  physician  prescribed.  She  was 
not  suffered  to  go  out  when  4[  wished  to  go :  and 


!> 


!|S 


I '.-I- 

1:^ 


'% 


.'■li 


t'*.  Il 


190 


THE  LIFE   OF 


then  the  old  house  was  a  mere  ^host-house,  I 
droamed  of  jrhosts  and  thoug-ht  of  them  waking! 
It  was  an  existence  I  could  not  support!"  Here 
liord  Byron  broice  off  abruptly,  sayings,  "  I  hate  to 
speak  of  my  family  affairs,  though  1  have  been 
compelled  to  talk  nonsense  concerning  them  to 
some  of  my  butterfly  visiters,  glad  on  any  terms  to 
get  rid  of  their  importunities.  I  long  to  be  again 
on  the  mountains.  I  am  fond  of  solitude,  and 
should  ne/rer  talk  nonsense,  if  I  always  found  plain 
men  to  talk  to." 


h 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Reflections  on  his  domestic  Verses— Consideration  of  his  Works — The 
Corsair — Probabilities  of  the  Character  and  Incidents  of  the  Story— 
On  the  Difference  between  poetical  Invention  and  moral  Experience : 
illustrated  by  the  Difference  between  the  Genius  of  Shakspeare  and 
that  of  Byron. 

The  task  just  concluded  may  disappoint  the  ex- 
pectations of  some  of  my  readers,  but  I  would  rather 
have  said  less  than  so  much,  could  so  little  have  been 
allowed ;  for  I  have  never  been  able  to  reconcile  to 
my  notions  of  propriety,  the  exposure  of  domestic 
concerns  which  the  world  has  no  right  claim  to  know, 
and  can  only  urge  the  plea  of  curiosity  for  desiring  to 
see  explained.  The  scope  of  my  undertaking  com- 
prehends only  the  public  and  intellectual  character 
of  Lord  Byron;  every  word  that  I  have  found  it 
necessary  to  say  respecting  his  private  affairs  has 
been  set  down  with  reluctance ;  nor  should  I  have 
touched  so  freely  on  his  failings,  but  that  the  conse- 
quences have  deeply  influenced  his  poetical  concep- 
tions. 

There  is,  however,  one  point  connected  with  his 
conjugal  differences  which  cannot  be  overlooked,  nor 


house,  I 
waking ! 
!"  Here 
I  hate  to 
ave  been 
them  to 
'  terms  to 
be  again 
ude,  and 
und  plain 


I  ■ 


r  Works— The 
of  the  Story-' 
I  Experience : 
akspeare  and 


It  the  ex- 
uld  rather 
have  been 
concile  to 
domestic 

to  know, 
esiring  to 
dng  com- 
character 

found  it 
ffairs  has 
d  I  have 

le  conse- 
|1  concep- 

with  his 
|oked,nor 


LORD   BYRON. 


101 


noticed  without  animadversion.  He  was  too  active 
himself  in  bespeaking  the  public  sympathy  against 
his  lady.  It  is  true  that  but  for  that  error  the  worirl 
might  never  have  seen  the  verses  written  by  liim  on 
the  occasion ;  and  perhaps  it  was  the  friends  wlio 
were  about  him  at  the  time  who  ouglit  chiefly  to  be 
blamed  for  having  given  them  circulation:  but  in 
saying  this,  I  am  departing  from  the  rule  I  had 
prcscri'»ed  to  myself,  while  1  ought  only  to  have 
remarked  that  the  compositions  alluded  to,  both  tlie 
Fare-thce-well,  and  the  Anatliema  on  Mrs.  Charlo- 
mont,  are  splendid  corroborations  of  tlie  metaphysi- 
cal fact  which  it  is  the  main  object  of  this  work  to 
illustrate,  namely,  that  Byron  was  only  original  and 
truly  great  when  he  ^vrote  from  the  dictates  of  his 
own  breast,  and  described  from  the  suggestions  of 
things  he  had  seen.  When  his  imagination  found 
not  in  his  subject  uses  for  the  materials  of  his  expe- 
rience, and  opportunities  to  imbody  them,  it  seemed 
to  be  no  longer  the  same  high  and  mysterious  faculty 
that  so  ruled  the  tides  of  the  feelings  of  others.  He 
then  appeared  a  more  ordinary  poet — a  skilful  verse- 
maker.  The  necromancy  which  held  the  reader 
spellboimd  became  ineffectual ;  and  the  charm  and 
the  glory  which  interested  so  intensely,  and  shone 
so  radiantly  on  his  configurations  from  realities,  all 
failed  and  faded ;  for  his  genius  dealt  not  with  airy 
fancies,  but  had  its  power  and  dominion  amid  the 
living  and  the  local  of  the  actual  world. 

I  shall  now  return  to  the  consideration  of  his 
works,  and  the  first  in  order  is  the  Corsair,  published 
in  1814.  He  seems  to  have  been  perfectly  sensible 
that  this  beautiful  composition  was  in  his  best  pecu- 
liar manner.  It  is  indeed  a  pirate's  isle,  peopled 
with  his  own  creatures. 

It  has  been  alleged  that  Lord  Byron  was  indebted 
to  Sir  Walter  Scott's  poem  of  Rokeby  for  the  lead- 
ing incidents  of  the  Corsair,  but  the  resemblance  is 
not  to  me  very  obvious :  besides,  the  whole  style  of 


> 


'■i, 


,       !■■ 


r  I 


i    i- 


■'    ; 

•Mi 

\     1 

U 

11.  . 

192 


THE    LIFE    OF 


the  poem  is  so  strikingly  in  his  own  manner,  that 
even  had  he  borrowed  the  plan,  it  was  only  as  a 
thread  to  string  his  own  original  con(!eptions  upon ; 
the  beauty  and  brilliancy  of  them  could  not  be  bor- 
rowed, and  are  not  imitations. 

There  were  two  islands  in  the  Archipelago,  when 
Lord  Byron  was  in  Greece,  considered  as  the  chief 
haunts  of  the  pirates,  Stampalia,  and  a  long  narrow 
island  between  Cape  Colonna  and  Zea.    Jura  also 
was  a  little  tainted  in  its  reputation.    I  think,  how- 
ever, from  the  description,  that  the  pirate's  isle  of 
the  Corsair  is  the  island  off  Cape  Colonna.    It  is  a 
rude,  rocky  mass.    I  know  not  to  what  particular 
Coron,  if  there  be  more  than  one,  the  poet  alludes ; 
for  the  Coron  of  the  Morea  is  neighbour  to,  if  not 
in,  the  Mainote  territory,  a  tract  of  country  which 
never  submitted  to  the  Turks,  and  was  exempted 
from  the  jurisdiction  of  Mussulman  officers  by  the 
payment  of  an  annual  tribute.    The  Mainotes  them- 
selves are  all  pirates  and  robbers.    If  it  be  in  that 
Coron  that  Byron  has  placed  Seyd  the  pashaw,  it 
must  be  attributed  to  inadvertency.    His  Lordship 
was  never  there,  nor  in  any  part  of  Maina ;  nor  does 
he  describe  the  place,  a  circumstance  whi(;h  of 
itself  goes  far  to  prove  the  inadvertency.    It  is, 
however,  only  in  making  it  the  seat  of  a  Turkish 
pashaw  that  any  error  has  been  committed.    In 
working  out  the  incidents  of  the  poem  where  de- 
scriptions of  scenery  are  given,  they  relate  chiefly 
to  Athens  and  its  neighbourhood.    In  themselves 
these  descriptions  are  executed  with  an  exquisite 
felicity ;  but  they  are  brought  in  without  any  obvious 
reason  wherefore.    In  fact,  they  appear  to  have 
been  written  independently  of  the  poem,  and  are 
patched  on  "  shreds  of  purple"  which  could  have 
been  spared. 

The  character  of  Conrad  the  Corsair  may  be  de- 
scribed as  a  combination  of  the  warrior  of  Albania 
and  a  naval  officer — Childc  Harold  mingled  with  the 
hero  of  the  Giaour. 


LORD   BYRON. 


103 


that 
Hs  a 
ipon ; 
!  bor- 

whcn 
chief 
irrow 
a  also 
,  how- 
sle  of 
It  is  a 
ticulai 
hides ; 
if  not 
which 
jmpted 
by  the 
}  them- 
in  that 
[haw,  it 

rdship 
or  does 

(;h  of 
It  is, 

urkish 

d.  In 
re  de- 
chiefly 
iselves 
quisite 
bvious 

have 
id  are 

have 

Ibe  de- 
llbania 
lith  the 


A  man  of  loncHncHM  and  mystery, 
Scarce  fieun  to  Niiiilp,  mid  Ncldoin  heard  to  High ; 
Robust,  hut  not  Herculean,  to  theHight 
No  giant  tlraine  mmh  I'orih  tiiH  ronirnon  height ; 
Yet  in  tiie  whole,  who  piiused  to  look  again 
Saw  more  than  marks  the  crowd  of  vulgar  men : 
They  gaxe  and  marvel  how,  and  Htlll  confuMS 
That  thuaitiH,  but  why  they  cannot  guesN. 
8un-bumt  Iuh  cheek,  his  forehead  high  and  pale, 
llie  sable  curls  in  wild  J)rolll^4ion  veil. 
And  oil  perforce  his  riHing  lip  reveals 
The  haughtier  thought  it  curbn,  but  scarce  cciiceals : 
Though  smooth  his  voice,  and  calm  his  ireneral  mien, 
Still  seems  there  something  he  would  no:  have  seen. 
His  features  deepening  lines  and  varying  hue 
At  times  attracted,  yet  perplex'd  the  view, 
Ah  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 
WorkM  feelings  feartlil,  and  yet  undefined : 
Such  might  he  be  that  none  could  truly  tell. 
Too  close  inquiry  bis  stern  glance  could  quell. 
There  breathed  but  few  whose  asiKsct  coidd  defy 
The  Aill  encounter  of  his  searching  eye ; 
He  had  the  skill,  when  cunning  gaze  to  seek 
To  probe  his  heart  and  watch  his  changing  cheek. 
At  once  the  observer's  purpose  to  espy, 
And  on  himself  roll  back  his  scrutiny, 
Lest  he  to  Conrad  rather  should  betray 
Some  secret  thought,  than  drag  that  chief's  to  day. 

There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  rage  and  fear ; 
And  where  his  fh)wn  of  hatred  darkly  liell 
Hope  withering  fled,  and  mercy  sigh'd,  farewell. 

It  will  be  allowed  that,  in  this  portrait,  some  of 
the  darker  features  and  harsher  lineaments  of  Byron 
himself  are  very  evident,  but  with  a  more  fixed 
sternness  than  belonged  to  him ;  for  it  was  only  by 
fits  that  he  could  put  on  such  severity.  Conrad  is, 
however,  a  higher  creation  than  any  which  he  had 
previously  described.  Instead  of  the  listlessness  of 
Childe  Harold,  he  is  active  and  enterprising ;  such 
as  the  noble  pilgrim  would  have  been,  but  for  the 
satiety  which  had  relaxed  his  energies.  There  is 
also  about  him  a  solemnity  different  from  the  ani- 
mation of  the  Giaour — a  penitential  despair  arising 
from  a  cause  undisclosed.  The  Giaour,  though 
wounded  and  fettered,  and  laid  in  a  dungeon,  would 

R 


t"i 


■I' 


i\tm^^> 


194 


THE   LIFE   OF 


not  have  felt  as  Conrad  is  supposed  to  feel  in  that 
situation.  'I'he  following  bold  and  terrific  verses, 
descriptive  of  the  maelstrom  agitations  of  remorse, 
could  not  have  been  appropriately  applied  to  the  de- 
spair of  grief,  the  predominant  source  of  emotion 
in  the  Giaour. 

There  is  a  war,  a  chaos  of  the  mind 
When  all  its  cleniuntH  convulsed  combined, 
Lie  dark  and  Jarring  with  perturbed  force, 
And  gnashing  with  impenitent  remorse. 
That  juggling  flend  who  never  spake  before, 
But  cries,  *  I  warn'd  thee,'  when  the  deed  is  o'er ; 
Vain  voice,  the  spirit  burning,  hut  unbent. 
May  writhe,  rebel— the  weak  alone  repent. 


;l    I 
\  ilii 


The  character  of  Conrad  is  undoubtedly  finely 
imagined ; — as  the  painters  v;ould  say,  it  is  in  the 
highest  style  of  art,  and  brought  out  with  sublime 
effect;  but  still  it  is  only  another  phase  of  the 
same  portentous  meteor,  that  was  nebulous  in  Childe 
Harold,  and  fiery  in  the  Giaour.  To  the  safe  and 
shop-resorting  inhabitants  of  Christendom,  the  Cor- 
sair seems  to  present  many  improbabilities ;  never- 
theless, it  is  true  to  nature,  and  in  every  part  of  the 
Levant  the  traveller  meets  with  individuals  whose 
air  and  physiognomy  remind  him  of  Conrad.  The 
incidents  of  the  story,  also,  so  wild  and  extravagant 
to  the  snug  and  legal  notions  of  England,  are  not 
more  in  keeping  with  the  character,  than  they  are 
in  accordance  with  fact  and  reality.  The  poet  suf- 
fers immeasurable  injustice,  when  it  is  attempted  to 
determine  the  probability  of  the  wild  scenes  and 
wilder  adventurers  of  his  tales,  by  the  circumstances 
and  characters  of  the  law-regulated  system  of  our 
diurnal  afl'airs.  Probability  is  a  standard  formed  by 
experience,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  ancho- 
rets of  libraries  should  object  to  the  improbability 
of  the  Corsair,  and  yet  acknowledge  the  poetical 
power  displayed  in  the  composition ;  for  it  is  a  work 
wliich  could  only  have  been  written  by  one  who  had 


,J 


LORD   BYRON. 


105 


in  that 
verses, 
emorse, 
the  de- 
emotion 


r; 


ly  finely 
is  in  the 
sublime 
I  of  the 
in  Childe 
safe  and 
1  the  Cor- 
never- 
rt  of  the 
s  whose 
bd.    The 
ravagant 
are  not 
they  are 
poet  suf- 
mpted  to 
nes  and 
nstances 
of  our 
►rmed  by 
e  ancho- 
obability 
poetical 
s  a  work 
who  had 


himself  seen  or  heard  on  the  spot  of  transactions 
similar  to  those  he  has  described.  No  course  of 
reading  could  have  supplied  materials  for  a  narra- 
tion so  faithfully  descriptive  of  the  accidents  to 
which  an  Mgewa.  pirate  is  exposed  as  the  Corsair. 
Had  Lord  Byron  never  been  out  of  England,  the 
production  of  a  work  so  appropriate  in  reflection,  so 
wild  in  spirit,  and  so  bold  in  invention,  as  in  that 
case  it  would  have  been,  would  have  entitled  him  to 
the  highest  honours  of  original  conception,  or  been 
rejected  as  extravagant ;  considered  as  the  result  of 
things  seen,  and  of  probabilities  suggested,  by  transac- 
tions not  uncommon  in  the  region  where  his  genius 
gathered  the  ingredients  of  its  sorceries,  more  than 
the  half  of  its  merits  disappear,  while  the  other 
half  brighten  with  the  lustre  of  truth.  The  man- 
ners, the  actions,  and  the  incidents  were  new  to  the 
English  mind ;  but  to  the  inhabitant  of  the  Levant 
they  have  long  been  familiar,  and  the  traveller  who 
visits  that  region  will  hesitate  to  admit  that  Lord 
Byron  possessed  those  creative  powers,  and  that 
discernment  of  dark  bosoms  for  which  he  is  so  much 
celebrated ;  because  he  will  see  there  how  little  of 
invention  was  necessary  to  form  such  heroes  as 
Conrad,  and  how  much  the  actual  traffic  of  life  and 
trade  is  constantly  stimulating  enterprise  and  bravery. 
But  let  it  not,  therefore,  be  supposed,  that  I  would 
undervalue  either  the  genius  of  the  poet,  or  the 
merits  of  the  poem,  in  saying  so,  for  I  do  think  a 
higher  faculty  has  been  exerted  in  the  Corsair  than 
in  Childe  Harold.  In  the  latter,  only  actual  things 
are  described,  freshly  and  vigorously  as  they  were 
seen,  and  feelings  expressed  eloquently  as  they 
were  felt ;  but  in  the  former,  the  talent  of  combina- 
tion has  been  splendidly  employed.  The  one  is  a 
view  from  nature,  the  other  is  a  composition  both 
from  nature  and  from  history. 

Lara,  which  appeared  soon  after  the  Corsair,  is  an 
evident  supplement  to  it ;  the  description  of  the  hero 


'ill 

J".  >'  \        ' 

$^*y  if;' 

ji  ' 

.  ii; 

i  ill 


Ih.y 


1 1 


r 

M  ! 


196 


THE   LIFE    OF 


p.. 


corresponds  in  person  and  character  with  Conrad ; 
so  that  the  remarks  made  on  the  Corsair  apply,  in 
all  respects,  to  Lara.  The  poem  itself  is,  perhaps, 
in  elegance,  superior ;  but  the  descriptions  are  not 
so  vivid,  simply  because  they  are  more  indebted  to 
imagination.  There  is  one  of  them,  however,  in 
which  the  lake  and  abbey  of  Newstead  are  dimly 
shadowed,  equal  in  sweetness  and  solemnity  to  any 
thing  the  poet  has  ever  written. 

It  was  the  niglit,  and  Lara's  glassy  stream 

The  stars  are  studding  each  with  imaged  beam : 

So  calm,  the  waters  scarcely  seem  to  stray, 

And  yet  they  glide,  like  happiness,  away ; 

Reflecting  far  and  (tiiry-like  from  high 

The  immortal  lights  that  live  along  the  sky ; 

Its  banks  are  fringed  with  many  a  goodly  tree, 

And  flowers  the  fairest  that  may  feast  the  bee : 

Such  in  her  chaplet  infant  Dian  wove, 

And  innocence  would  offer  to  her  love ; 

These  deck  the  shore,  the  waves  their  channel  make 

In  windings  bright  and  mazy,  like  the  snake. 

All  was  so  still,  so  soft  in  earth  and  air, 

You  scarce  would  start  to  meet  a  spirit  there, 

Secure  that  naught  of  evil  could  delight 

To  walk  in  such  a  scene,  in  such  a  night ! 

It  was  a  moment  only  for  the  good : 

So  Lara  deem'd :  nor  longer  there  he  stood ; 

But  turn'd  in  silence  to  his  castle-gate : 

Such  scene  his  soul  no  more  could  contemplate : 

Such  scene  reminded  him  of  other  days, 

Of  skies  more  cloudless,  moons  of  purer  blaze; 

Of  nights  more  soft  and  fVequent,  hearts  that  now— 

No,  no !  the  storm  may  beat  upon  his  brow 

Unfelt,  unsparing ;  but  a  night  like  this, 

A  night  of  beauty,  mock'd  such  breast  as  his. 

He  turn'd  within  his  solitary  hall. 
And  his  high  shadow  shot  along  the  wall : 
There  were  the  painted  forms  of  other  times — 
T  was  all  they  left  of  virtues  or  of  crimes. 
Save  vague  tradition ;  and  the  gloomy  vaults 
That  hid  their  dust,  their  foibles,  and  their  faults, 
And  half  a  column  of  the  pompous  page. 
That  speeds  the  spacious  tale  from  age  to  age ; 
Where  history's  pen  its  praise  or  blame  supplies 
And  lies  like  truth,  and  still  most  truly  lies; 
He  wand'ring  mused,  and  as  the  moonbeam  shone 
Through  the  dim  lattice  o'er  the  floor  of  stone. 
And  the  high-fretted  roof  and  saints  that  there 
Cer  Grothic  windows  knelt  in  pictured  prayer ; 


^i'<^M 


v,f  iU^ 


LORD   B^Ji^V 


197 


ionrad ; 
pply,  in 
erhaps, 
are  not 
jbted  to 
3ver,  in 
e  dimly 
J  to  any 


make 


lOW— 


Reflected  in  fantantic  figures  grew 
Like  life,  but  not  like  mortal  life  to  view ; 
His  bristling  locks  of  sable,  brow  of  gloom, 
And  the  wide  waving  of  his  shaken  plume 
Glanced  like  a  spectre's  attributes,  and  gave 
His  aspect  all  that  terror  gives  the  grave. 

That  Byron  wrote  best  when  he  wrote  of  himself 
and  of  his  own,  has  probably  been  already  made 
sufficiently  apparent.  In  this  respect  he  stands 
alone  and  apart  from  all  other  poets,  and  there  will 
be  occasion  to  show,  that  this  peculiarity  extended 
much  farther  over  all  his  works,  than  merely  to 
those  which  may  be  said  to  have  required  him  to  be 
thus  personal.  The  great  distinction,  indeed,  of  his 
merit  consists  in  that  singularity.  Shakspeare,  in 
drawing  the  materials  of  his  dramas  from  tales  and 
history  has,  with  wonderful  art,  given  from  his  own 
invention  and  imagination  the  fittest  and  most 
appropriate  sentiments  and  language ;  and  admira- 
tion at  the  perfection  with  which  he  has  accomplished 
this,  can  never  be  exhausted.  The  difference  be- 
tween Byron  and  Shakspeare  consists  in  the  curious 
accident,  if  it  may  be  so  called,  by  which  the  former 
was  placed  in  circumstances  which  taught  him  to 
feel  in  himself  the  very  sentiments  that  he  has  as- 
cribed to  his  characters.  Shakspeare  created  the 
feelings  of  his,  and  with  such  excellence,  that  they 
are  not  only  probable  to  the  situations,  but  give  to 
the  personifications  the  individuality  of  living  per- 
sons. Byron's  are  scarcely  less  so ;  but  with  him 
there  was  no  invention,  only  experience,  and  when 
he  attempts  to  express  more  than  he  has  himself 
known,  he  is  always  comparatively  feeble. 


lltS, 

ies 
hone 


R2 


198 


THE   LIFE   OF 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


Nil 


i;; 


Byron  determines  to  reside  abroad— Visits  the  Plain  of  Waterloo — 

State  of  his  Feelings. 

From  different  incidental  expressions  in  his  cor- 
respondence it  is  sufficiently  evident  that  Byron,  be- 
fore his  marriage,  intended  to  reside  abroad.  In  his 
letter  to  me  of  the  11th  Decen;ber,  1813,  he  dis- 
tinctly states  this  intention,  and  intimates  that  he 
then  thought  of  establishing  his  home  in  Greece. 
It  is  not  therefore  surprising  that,  after  his  separa- 
tion from  Lady  Byron,  he  should  have  determined 
to  carry  this  intention  into  effect ;  for  at  that  period, 
besides  the  calumny  heaped  upon  him  from  all  quar- 
ters, the  embarrassment  of  his  affairs,  and  the  reta- 
liatory satire,  all  tended  to  force  him  into  exile ;  he 
had  no  longer  any  particular  tie  to  bind  him  to  Eng- 
land. 

On  the  25th  of  April,  1816,  he  sailed  for  Ostend, 
and  resumed  the  composition  of  Childe  Harold,  it 
may  be  said,  from  the  moment  of  his  embarkation. 
In  it,  however,  there  is  no  longer  the  fiction  of  an 
imaginary  character  stalking  like  a  shadow  amid  his 
descriptions  and  reflections — ^lie  comes  more  de- 
cidedly forwards  as  the  hero  in  his  own  person. 

In  passing  to  Brussels  he  visited  the  field  of  Wa- 
terloo, and  the  slight  sketch  which  he  has  given  in 
the  poem  of  that  eventful  conflict  is  still  the  finest 
which  has  yet  been  written  on  the  subject. 

But  the  note  of  his  visit  to  the  field  is  of  more  im- 
portance to  my  present  purjiose,  inasmuch  as  it 
tends  to  illustrate  the  querulous  state  of  his  own 
mind  at  the  time. 

"  I  went  on  horseback  twice  over  the  field,  com- 
paring it  with  my  recollection  of  similar  scenes. 


LORD   BYRON. 


199 


As  a  plain,  Waterloo  seems  marked  out  for  the  scene 
of  some  great  action,  though  this  may  be  mere  ima- 
gination. 1  have  viewed  with  attention  those  of 
Platea,  Troy,  Mantinea,  Leuctra,  Chaeronea,  and 
Marathon,  and  the  field  round  Mont  St.  Jean  and 
Hugoumont  appears  to  want  little  but  a  better  cause 
and  that  indefinable  but  impressive  halo  which  the 
lapse  of  ages  throws  around  a  celebrated  spot,  to  vie 
in  interest  with  any  or  all  of  these,  except  perhaps 
the  last-mentioned." 

The  expression  "  a  better  cause,"  could  only  have 
been  engendered  in  mere  waywardness ;  but  through- 
out his  reflections  at  this  period  a  peevish  ill-will 
towards  England  is  often  manifested,  as  if  he  sought 
to  attract  attention  by  exasperating  the  national 
pride ;  that  pride  which  he  secretly  flattered  himself 
was  to  be  augmented  by  his  own  fame. 

I  cannot,  in  tracing  his  travels  through  the  third 
canto,  test  the  accuracy  of  his  descriptions  as  in  the 
former  two ;  but  as  they  are  all  drawn  from  actual 
views  they  have  the  same  vivid  individuality  im- 
pressed upon  them.  Nothing  can  be  more  simple 
and  affecting  than  the  following  picture,  nor  less 
likely  to  be  an  imaginary  scene : 


."-■5 


By  Coblentz,  on  a  rise  of  gentle  ground, 
There  is  a  small  and  simple  pyramid, 
Crowning  the  summit  of  the  verdant  mound ; 
Beneath  its  base  are  heroes'  ashes  hid. 
Our  enemies.    And  let  not  that  forbid 
Honour  to  Marceau,  o'er  whose  early  tomb 
Tears,  big  tears,  rush'd  fVom  the  rough  soldier's  lid 
Lamenting  and  yet  envying  such  a  doom. 
Falling  for  ^ance,  whose  rights  he  battled  to  resume. 


Perhaps  few  passages  of  descriptive  poetry  excel 
that  in  which  reference  is  made  to  the  column  of 
Avenches,  the  ancient  Aventicum.  It  combines  with 
an  image  distinct  and  picturesque,  poetica!  associa- 
tions full  of  the  grave  and  moral  breathings  of  olden 
forms  and  hoary  antiquity. 


is 

II' 


H  ' 


If'    ^\\     I'M 


200  THE   LIFE    OF 

By  a  lone  wall,  a  lonelier  column  mars 
A  gray  and  grief- worn  aspect  of  old  days ; 
'T  is  the  last  remnant  of  the  wreck  of  years, 
And  looks  as  with  the  wild-bewilder'd  gaze 
Of  one  to  stone  converted  by  amaze, 
Yet  still  with  consciousness ;  and  there  it  stands, 
Making  a  marvel  that  it  not  decays. 
When  the  coeval  pride  of  human  hands, 
Leveird  Aventicum,  hath  strew*d  her  subject  lands. 


W: 


But  the  most  remarkable  quality  in  the  third  canto 
is  the  deep,  low  bass  of  thought  which  runs  through 
several  passages,  and  which  gives  to  it,  when  consi- 
dered with  reference  to  the  circumstances  under 
which  it  was  written,  the  serious  character  of  docu- 
mentary evidence  as  to  the  remorseful  condition  of 
the  poet's  mind.  It  would  be,  after  what  has  already 
been  pointed  out  in  brighter  incidents,  aflfectation 
not  to  say,  that  these  sad  bursts  of  feeling  and  wild 
paroxysms,  bear  strong  indications  of  having  been 
suggested  by  the  wreck  of  his  domestic  happiness, 
and  dictated  by  contrition  for  the  part  he  had  him- 
self taken  in  the  ruin.  The  foil  ^wing  reflections  on 
the  unguarded  hour,  are  full  of  pathos  and  solemnity, 
amounting  almost  to  the  deep  and  dreadful  harmony 
of  Manfred: 


m 


To  fly  fVom,  need  not  be  to  hate,  mankind ; 
All  are  not  flt  with  them  to  stir  and  toil, 
Nor  is  it  discontent  to  keep  the  mind 
Deep  in  its  fountain,  lest  it  overboil 
In  the  hot  throng,  where  we  become  the  spoil 
Of  our  infection,  till  too  late  and  long 
We  may  deplore  and  struggle  with  the  coil, 
In  wretched  interchange  of  wrong  for  wrong 
Midst  a  contentious  world,  striving  where  none  are  strong. 

There,  in  a  moment,  we  may  plunge  our  years 
In  fatal  penitence,  and  in  the  blight  ' 

Of  our  own  soul,  turn  all  our  blood  to  tears. 
And  colour  things  to  come  with  hues  of  night ; 
The  race  of  life  becomes  a  hopeless  flight 
To  those  who  walk  in  darkness :  on  the  sea. 
The  boldest  steer  but  where  their  ports  invite  j 
Uut  there  are  wanderers  o'er  eternity, 
Whose  bark  drives  on  and  on,  and  anchored  ne'er  shall  ho- 


LORD   BYRON. 


201 


These  sentiments  are  conceived  in  the  mood  of  an 
awed  spirit ;  they  breathe  of  sorrow  and  penitence. 
Of  the  weariness  of  satiety  the  pilcnim  no  more 
complains;  he  is  no  longer  despondent  from  ex- 
haustion, and  the  lost  appetite  of  passion,  but  from 
the  weight  of  a  burden  which  he  cannot  lay  down ; 
and  he  clings  to  visible  objectts,  as  if  from  their  na- 
ture he  could  extract  a  moral  strength. 


?i 


I  live  not  in  myself,  but  I  become 
Portion  of  that  around  mc;  ami  to  me, 
High  mountains  are  a  feeling,  but  the  hum 
Of  human  cities  tortures :  I  can  see 
Nothing  to  loathe  in  nature,  save  to  be 
A  link  reluctant  in  a  fleshly  chain, 
Class'd  among  creatures,  where  the  soul  can  flee, 
And  with  the  sky,  the  peak,  the  heaving  plain 
Of  ocean,  or  the  stars,  mingle,  and  not  in  vain. 

These  dim  revelations  of  black  and  lowering 
thought  are  overshadowed  with  a  darker  hue  than 
sorrow  alone  could  have  cast.  A  consciousness  of 
sinful  blame  is  evident  amid  them ;  and  though  the 
fantasies  that  loom  through  the  mystery,  are  not  so 
hideous  as  the  guilty  reveries  in  the  weird  caldron 
of  Manfred's  conscience,  still  they  have  an  awful 
resemblance  to  them.  They  are  phantoms  of  the 
same  murky  element,  and,  being  more  akin  to  forti- 
tude than  despair,  prophesy  not  of  hereafter,  but  ora- 
cularly confess  suffering. 

Manfred  himself  hath  given  vent  to  no  finer  hor- 
ror than  the  oracle  that  speaks  in  this  magnificent 
stanza : 

1  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me ; 
I  have  not  flatter'd  its  rank  breath,  nor  bow'd 
To  its  idolatries  a  patient  knee — 
Nor  coin'd  my  cheek  to  smiles — nor  cried  aloud 
In  worship  of  an  echo ;— in  the  crowd 
They  could  not  deem  me  one  of  such ;  I  stood 
Among  them,  but  not  of  them ;  in  a  shroud 
Of  thoughts  which  were  not  of  tneir  thoughts,  and  still  could, 
Had  I  not  filed  my  mind,  which  thus  itself  subdued. 

There  are  times  in  life  when  all  men  feel  their 


■^AJ  S 


ff 


i 

•f 

', 

'  l;i<.i:\ 

%^      -     , 

i 

iuL.:.. 

202 


THE   LIFE   OF 


sympathies  extinct,  and  Lord  Byron  was  evidently 
in  that  condition,  when  he  penned  these  remarkable 
lines;  but  independently  of  their  striking  beauty, 
the  scenery  in  which  they  were  conceived  deserves 
to  be  considered  with  reference  to  the  sentiment  that 
pervades  them.  For  it  was  amid  the  same  obscure 
ravines,  pine-tufted  precipices'  and  falling  waters  of 
the  Alps,  that  he  afterward  placed  the  outcast  Man- 
fred— an  additional  corroboration  of  the  justness  of 
the  remarks  which  I  ventured  to  offer,  in  adverting 
to  his  ruminations  in  contemplating,  while  yet  a  boy, 
the  Malvern  hills,  as  if  they  were  the  scenes  of  his 
impassioned  childhood.  In  "  the  palaces  of  nature," 
he  first  felt  the  consciousness  of  having  done  some 
wrong,  and  when  he  would  infuse  into  another,  al- 
beit in  a  wilder  degree  the  feelings,  he  had  himself 
felt,  he  recalled  the  images  which  had  ministered  to 
the  cogitations  of  his  own  contrition.  But  I  shall 
have  occasion  to  speak  more  of  this,  when  1  come 
to  consider  the  nature  of  the  guilt  and  misery  of 
Manfred. 

That  Manfred  is  the  greatest  of  Byron's  works 
will  probably  not  be  disputed.  It  has  more  than 
the  fatal  mysticism  of  Macbeth,  with  the  satanic 
grandeur  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  and  the  hero  is  placed 
in  circumstances,  and  amid  scenes,  which  accord 
with  the  stupendous  features  of  his  preternatural 
character.  How  then,  it  may  be  asked,  does  this 
moral  phantom,  that  has  never  been,  bear  any  re- 
semblance to  the  poet  himself?  Must  not,  in  this 
instance,  the  hypothesis  which  assigns  to  B5rron's 
heroes  his  own  sentiments  and  feelings  be  aban- 
doned? I  think  not.  In  noticing  the  deep  and 
solemn  reflections  with  which  he  was  affected  in 
ascending  the  Rhine,  and  which  he  has  imbodied  in 
the  third  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  I  have  already 
pointed  out  a  similarity  in  the  tenor  of  the  thoughts 
to  those  of  Manfred,  as  well  as  the  striking  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  "  filed"  mind.    There  is,  moreover, 


LORD   BYRON. 


203 


ently 
kable 
lauty, 
erves 
X  that 
iscure 
3rs  of 
Man- 
ess  of 
erting 
a  boy, 
of  his 
iture," 
some 
ler,  al- 
limself 
ered  to 
I  shall 
I  come 
jery  of 

works 
e  than 
iatanie 
placed 
accord 
latural 
[es  this 
my  re- 
lin  this 
Jyron's 
aban- 
;p  and 
;ted  in 
idied  in 
ilready 
foughts 
3know- 
Ireover, 


in  the  drama,  the  same  distaste  of  the  world  which 
Byron  himself  expressed  when  cogitating  on  the 
desolation  of  his  hearth,  and  the  same  contempt  of 
the  insufficiency  of  his  genius  and  renown  to  mitigate 
contrition, — all  in  strange  harmony  with  the  same 
magnificent  objects  of  sight.  Is  not  the  opening 
soliloquy  of  Manfred  the  very  echo  of  the  reflections 
on  the  Rhine  1 

My  slumbers— if  I  slumber— are  not  sleep, 
But  a  continuance  of  enduring  thought, 
Which  then  I  can  resist  not ;  in  my  heart 
There  is  a  vigil,  and  these  eyes  but  close 
To  look  within— and  yet  I  live  and  bear 
The  aspect  and  the  form  of  breathing  man. 

But  the  following  is  more  impressive :  it  is  the  very 
phrase  he  would  himself  have  employed  to  have 
spoken  of  the  consequences  of  his  fatal  marriage : 

My  injuries  came  down  on  those  who  lov'd  me, 
On  those  whom  I  best  lov'd ;  I  never  qnell'd 
An  enemy,  save  in  my  just  defence — 
But  my  embrace  was  fatal. 

He  had  not,  indeed,  been  engaged  in  any  duel  of 
which  the  issue  was  mortal ;  but  he  had  been  so  far 
engaged  with  more  than  one,  that  he  could  easily 
conceive  what  it  would  have  been  to  have  quelled  an 
enemy  in  just  defence.  But  unless  the  reader  can 
himself  discern,  by  his  sympathies,  that  there  is  the 
resemblance  I  contend  for,  it  is  of  no  use  to  multiply 
instances.  I  shall,  therefore,  give  but  one  other  ex- 
tract, which  breathes  the  predominant  spirit  of  all 
Byron's  works — that  sad  translation  of  the  preacher's 
**  vanity  of  vanities ;  all  is  vanity !" 

Look  on  me !  there  is  an  order 
Of  mortals  on  the  earth,  who  do  become 
Old  in  their  youth  and  die  ere  middle  age, 
Without  the  violence  of  warlike  death ; 
Some  perishing  of  pleasure — some  of  study- 
Some  worn  with  toil — some  of  mere  weariness — 
Some  of  disease— and  some  insanity— 


i 


204  THE    LIFE    OF 

And  Hoinc  of  witherM  or  of  broken  hearto ; 
Fur  lliiH  liiHt  is  ii  iiiitliuiy  which  nlayK 
More  than  art! nutnber'd4ii  tho  hHts  of  Fate; 
Taking  nil  t^hupoH,  and  bearinu  niuny  uauioti. 
Look  upon  UK! !  for  even  of  all  tlicse  things 
Have  I  partaken — and  of  all  theNc  thinjiH 
One  were  enough ;  then  wonder  not  lliat  I 
Am  what  I  am,  but  that  I  ever  was, 
Or,  having  been,  that  1  am  still  on  earth. 


w 


h- 


V.K 


%\ 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

ByroiVs  Residence  in  Switzerland— Excvrnon  to  the.  Glaciers— Man- 
frcdfminded  on  a  rnngical  Sacrifice,  not  on  Guilt — Similarity  between. 
Sentiments  tfiven  to  Manfred  and  those  expressed  by  Lord  Byron  in 
his  own  Person. 

The  account  given  by  Captain  Medwin  of  the 
manner  in  which  Lord  Byron  spent  his  time  in  Swit- 
zerland, has  the  racincss  of  hisl^ordship's  own  quaint- 
ness,  somewhat  dihited.  The  reality  of  the  conver- 
sations I  have  heard  questioned,  but  they  relate  in 
some  instances  to  matters  not  generally  known,  to 
the  truth  of  several  of  which  I  can  myself  bear  wit- 
ness ;  moreover  they  have  much  of  the  poet's  pecu- 
liar modes  of  thinking  about  them,  though  weakened 
in  effect  by  the  reporter.  No  man  can  give  a  just 
representation  of  another  who  is  not  capable  of  put- 
ting himself  into  the  character  of  his  original,  and 
of  thinking  with  his  power  and  intelligence.  Still 
there  are  occasional  touches  of  merit  in  the  feeble 
outlines  of  Captain  Medwin,  and  with  this  conviction 
it  would  be  negligence  not  to  avail  myself  of  them. 

"  Switzerland,"  said  his  Lordship,  "  is  a  country  I 
have  been  satisfied  with  seeing  once ;  Turkey  I  could 
live  in  for  ever.  I  never  forget  my  predilections :  I 
was  in  a  wret(^hed  state  of  health  and  worse  spirits 
when  I  was  at  Geneva ;  but  quiet  and  the  lake,  better 
physicians  tliun  Polidori,  soon  set  me  up.    I  never 


LORD  hyron. 


205 


tn  betujeen 
I  Huron  in 


L  of  the 
in  Swit- 
1  quaiiit- 
conver- 
elate  in 
own,  to 
»eiir  Wit- 
t's pecu- 
eakened 
a  just 
of  put- 
lal,  and 
le.    Still 
le  feeble 
inviction 
f  them. 
|ountry  I 
I  could 
;tions:  I 
le  spirits 
e,  better 
I  never 


led  so  moral  a  life  as  during  my  residence  in  that 
countiy ;  bitt  I  gained  no  credit  by  it.  Where  there 
is  mortification  there  ought  to  be  reward.  On  the 
contrary,  there  is  no  story  so  absurd  tliat  they  did 
not  invent  at  my  cost.  I  was  watched  by  glasses 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  lake,  and  by  glasses,  too, 
that  must  have  had  very  distortc.'d  optics ;  I  was  way- 
laid in  my  evening  drives.  I  believe  they  looked 
upon  me  as  a  man-monster. 

"  I  knew  very  few  of  the  Gencvcse.  Hentsh  was 
very  civil  to  me,  and  I  have  a  great  respect  for  Sis- 
mondi.  I  was  forced  to  return  the  civilities  of  (jno 
of  their  professors  by  asking  him  and  an  old  genth;- 
man,  a  friend  of  Gray's,  to  dine  with  me  :  I  had  gone 
out  to  sail  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  wind  pre- 
vented me  from  returning  in  time  for  dinner.  I  un- 
derstand that  I  offended  them  mortally. 

"  Among  our  countrymen  I  made  no  new  acquaint- 
ances, Shelley,  Monk  Lewis,  and  Hobhouse  were 
almost  the  only  English  people  I  saw.  No  wonder ; 
I  showed  a  distaste  for  society  at  that  time,  and  went 
little  among  the  Genevese;  besides,  I  could  not 
speak  French.  When  I  went  the  tour  of  the  lake 
with  Shelley  and  Hobhouse,  the  boat  was  nearly 
wrecked  near  the  ver>'  spot  where  St.  Preux  and  J  u- 
Ua  were  in  danger  of  being  drowned.  It  would  have 
been  classical  to  have  been  lost  tliere,  but  not  agree- 
able." 

The  third  Canto  of  Childe  Harold,  Manfred,  and 
the  Prisoner  of  Chillon  are  the  fruits  of  his  travels 
up  the  Rhine  and  of  his  sojourn  in  Switzerland.  Of 
the  first  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  more ;  but  the  fol- 
lowing extract  from  the  poet's  travelling  memoran- 
dum-book, has  been  supposed  to  contain  the  germ  of 
the  tragedy : 

"  September  22, 1816.— Left  Thim  in  a  boat,  which 
carried  us  the  length  of  the  lake  in  three  hours.  Tlie 
lake  small,  but  the  banks  fine ;  rocks  down  to  the 
water's  edge :  landed  at  Newhouse ;  passed  Interla- 

S 


■4 


206 


YHE   LIFR    OF 


ti^ 


;  »••' 


luiii 


^^smMm  \ ' 


i}  i 


chen ;  entered  upon  a  range  of  scenes  beyond  all  de- 
scription or  previous  conception;  passed  a  rock 
bearing  an  inscription ;  two  brothers,  one  murdered 
the  other;  just  the  place  for  it.  After  a  variety  of 
"windings,  came  to  an  enormous  rock ;  arrived  at 
the  foot  of  the  mountain  (the  Jungfraw)  glaciers ;  tor- 
rents, one  of  these  nine  hundred  feet,  visible  descent ; 
lodge  at  the  curate's ;  set  out  to  see  the  valley;  heard 
an  avalanche  fall  like  thunder ;  glaciers ;  enormous 
storm  comes  on ;  thunder  and  lightning  and  hail,  all 
in  perfection  and  beautiful.  The  torrent  is  in  shape, 
curving  over  the  rock,  like  the  tail  of  the  white  horso 
streaming  in  the  wind,  just  as  might  be  conceived 
would  be  that  of  the  pair  horse  on  which  Death  is 
mounted  in  the  Apocal)T)se :  it  is  neither  mist  nor 
water,  but  a  something  between  both ;  its  immense 
height  gives  a  wave,  a  curve,  a  spreading  here,  a  con- 
densation there,  wonderful,  indescribable ! 

"  September  23.  Ascent  of  the  Wingren,  the  dent 
(Pargent  shining  like  truth  on  one  side,  on  the  other 
the  clouds  rose  from  the  opposite  valley,  curling 
up  perpendicular  precipices  like  the  foam  of  the 
ocean  of  hell  during  a  spring-tide.  It  was  white 
and  sulphury,  and  immeasurably  deep  in  appearance ; 
the  side  we  ascended  was  of  course  not  of  so  precipi- 
tous a  nature ;  but  on  arriving  at  the  summit,  wc 
looked  down  on  the  other  side  upon  a  boiling  sea  of 
cloud  dashing  against  the  crag  on  which  we  stood. 
Arrived  at  the  Greenderwold,  mounted  and  rode  to 
the  higher  glacier,  twilight,  but  distinct,  very  fine ; 
glacier  like  a  frozen  hurricane ;  starlight  beautiful ; 
the  whole  of  the  day  was  fine,  and,  in  point  of  wea- 
ther, as  the  day  in  which  Paradise  was  made.  Passed 
whole  woods  of  withered  pines,  all  withered,  trunks 
stripped  and  lifeless,  done  by  a  single  winter." 

Undoubtedly  in  these  brief  and  abrupt  but  mas- 
terly touches,  hints  for  the  scenery  of  Manfred  may 
be  discerned,  but  I  can  perceive  nothing  in  them 
which  bears  the  least  likelihood  to  their  having  in- 
fluenced the  conception  of  that  sublime  work. 


LORD   BYRON. 


207 


There  has  always  beer  from  the  first  publication 
of  Manfred,  a  strange  misapprehension  wil)j  respect 
to  it  in  the  public  mind.  The  whole  poem  has  I»een 
misunderstood,  and  the  odious  supposiiivjii  that  as- 
cribes the  fearful  mystery  and  rc^norse  of  a  hero  to 
a  foul  passion  for  his  sister,  is  probably  one  of  those 
coarse  imaginations  which  have  grown  out  of  the 
calumnies  and  accusations  heaped  upon  the  author. 
How  can  it  have  happened  that  none  of  the  critics 
have  noticed  that  the  story  is  derived  from  the  hu- 
man sacrifices  supposed  to  have  been  in  use  among 
the  students  of  the  black  art  ? 

Manfred  is  represented  as  being  actuated  by  an 
insatiable  curiosity — a  passion  to  know  tlie  forbid- 
den secrets  of  the  world.  The  scene  opens  with  him 
at  his  midnijjjht  studies — his  lamp  is  almost  burned 
out — and  he  has  been  searching  for  knowledge  and 
has  not  found  it,  but  only  that 

Sorrow  js  knowledge :  they  who  know  the  most 
Must  mourn  the  deepest  o'er  the  fatal  truth, 
The  tree  of  knowledge  is  not  that  of  life. 
Philosophy  and  sciei-ce  and  the  springs 
Of  wonder,  and  the  wisdom  of  the  world 
I  have  essayed,  and  in  my  mind  there  is, 
A  power  to  make  these  subject  to  itself. 

He  is  engagedin  calling  spirits;  and,  as  tlie  incan- 
tation proceeds,  they  obey  his  bidding,  and  ask  him 
what  he  wants;  he  replies,  "  forgetfulness." 


FIRST  SPIRIT 

Of  what— of  whom— and  why  ? 

MANFRED. 

Of  that  which  is  within  me ;  read  it  there— 
Ye  know  it,  and  I  cannot  utter  it. 

SPIRIT, 

We  can  but  give  thee  that  which  we  possess  ;- 
Ask  of  us  subjects,  sovereignty,  the  power 
O'er  earth,  the  whole  or  portion,  or  a  sign 
Which  shall  control  the  elements,  whereof 
We  are  the  dominators.    Each  and  all — 
These  shall  be  thine. 


208 


•THE   LITE   OP 


m 


MANFRKD. 

01)livion,  self  oblivion — 
Can  ye  not  wring  t'rom  out  the  hidden  realms 
Ye  offer  ho  proCuseiy,  what  I  ask? 


SPIRIT. 

It  is  not  in  our  essence,  in  our  skill, 
But— thou  may'st  die. 

MANFRED. 

Will  death  bestow  it  on  me? 

SPIRIT. 

We  are  immortal,  and  do  not  forget ; 

We  are  eternal,  and  to  us  the  past 

Is  as  the  future,  present.    Art  tliou  answer'd  1 

MANFRED. 

Ye  mock  me,  but  the  jiowor  which  brought  ye  here 

Ilath  made  you  mine.    Slaves !  scoff  not  at  my  will ; 

The  mind,  the  spirit,  the  Promethean  spark, 

The  lijihtiiiiig  of  my  bcnng  is  as  bright, 

Pervading  and  far  darting  as  your  own. 

And  shall  not  yi(!ld  to  yours  though  coop'd  in  clay. 

Answer,  or  I  will  teach  you  what  I  am. 


SPIRIT. 

We  answer  as  we  answer'd. 
Is  even  in  thine  own  words. 


Our  reply 


MANFRED. 

Why  say  ye  so? 

SPIRIT. 

If,  as  thou  say'st,  thine  essence  be  as  ours, 
We  have  replied  in  telling  thee  the  thing 
Mortals  call  death  hath  naught  to  do  with  us. 

MANFRED. 

I  tht    have  call'd  you  from  your  realms  in  vain. 

This  impressive  and  original  scene  prepares  the 
reader  to  wonder  why  it  is  that  Manfred  is  so  desir- 
ous to  drink  of,  Lethe.  He  has  acquired  dominion 
over  spirits,  and  lie  finds,  in  the  possession  of  the 
power,  that  knowledj^re  has  only  hrought  him  sorrow. 
They  tell  him  he  is  immortal,  and  what  he  suffers  is 
as  inextinguisliablc  as  his  own  being :  why  should  he 
desire  forgetfulness  1 — Has  he  not  committed  a  great 


iiiiiir 


LORD   BYRON. 


209 


secret  sin?  What  is  it? — He  alludes  to  his  sister, 
and  in  liis  subsequent  interview  with  the  witch  we 
gnther  a  dreadful  meaning"  concerning  her  fate.  Her 
blood  has  been  shed,  not  by  his  hand  nor  in  punish- 
ment, but  in  the  shadow  and  occultations  of  some  un- 
utterable crime  and  mystery. 


She  was  like  me  in  lineaments ;  her  eyes, 
Her  hair,  her  features,  all  to  the  very  tone 
Even  of  her  voice,  they  said  were  like  to  mine, 
But  soften'd  all  and  temper'd  into  beauty. 
She  had  the  same  lone  thoughts  and  wanderings, 
The  quest  of  hidden  knowledge,  and  a  mind 
To  comprehend  the  universe ;  nor  these 
Alone,  but  with  them  gentler  powers  than  mine, 
I'ity,  and  smiles,  and  tears,  which  I  had  not ; 
And  tenderness — but  that  I  had  for  her ; 
Humility,  and  that  I  never  had : 
Her  faults  were  mine — her  virtues  were  her  own ; 
I  lov'd  her  and— destroy'd  her 

WITCH. 

With  thy  hand? 

MANFRED. 

Not  with  my  hand,  but  heart,  which  broke  her  heart. 
It  gaz'don  mine,  and  withered.    I  have  ahed 
Blood,  but  not  hers,  and  yet  her  blood  was  shed  ; — 
I  saw,  and  could  not  stanch  it. 


There  is  in  this  little  scene,  perhaps,  the  deepest 
pathos  ever  expressed ;  but  it  is  not  of  its  beauty  that 
I  am  treating ;  my  object  in  noticing  it  here  is,  that 
it  may  be  considered  in  connexion  with  that  where 
Manfred  appears  with  his  insatiate  thirst  of  know- 
ledge, and  marMacled  with  guilt.  It  indicates  that  his 
sister,  Astarte,  had  been  self-sacrificed  in  the  pursuit 
of  their  magical  knowledge.  Human  sacrifices  were 
supposed  to  be  among  the  initiate  propitiations  of  the 
demons  that  have  their  purposes  m  mi'.gic — as  well 
as  compacts  signed  with  the  blood  of  the  self-sold. 
There  was  also  a  dark  Egyptian  art,  of  which  the 
knowledge  and  the  eflScacy  could  only  be  obtained 
by  the  novitiate's  procuring  a  voluntary  victim — the 
dearest  objec-t  to  himself,  and  to  whom  he  also  was 

S2 


% 


fit'^ 


'.1*  i*' 


210 


THE   LIFE    OF 


the  dearest;*  and  the  primary  spring  of  Byron's  tra- 
gedy lies,  I  conceive,  in  a  sacrifice  of  that  kind  hav- 
ing been  performed,  without  obtaininfr  that  happi- 
ness which  the  votary  expected  would  be  found  in 
the  knowledge  and  power  purchased  at  such  a  price. 
His  sister  was  sacrificed  in  vain.  The  manner  of 
the  sacrifice  is  not  divulged,  but  it  is  darkly  intimated 
to  have  been  done  amid  the  perturbations  of  some- 
thing horrible. 


'v-' 


Night  after  night  for  years 
He  hath  pursued  long  vigils  in  this  tower 
Witliout  a  witness. — I  have  been  within  it — 
So  have  we  all  been  ofttimes ;  but  from  it, 
Or  its  contents,  it  were  impossible 
To  draw  conclusions  absolute  of  aught 
His  studies  tend  to. — To  be  sure  there  is 
One  chtimbcr  where  none  enter — *  *  * 
Count  Manfred  w.as,  as  now,  within  his  tower : 
How  occupied — we  know  not — but  with  him, 
The  sole  companion  of  his  wanderings 
And  watchings — her — whom  of  all  earthly  things 
That  liv'd,  the  only  thing  he  seem'd  to  love. 

With  admirable  taste,  and  in  thrilling  augmenta- 
tion of  the  horror,  the  poet  leaves  the  deed  which 

*  The  sacrifice  of  Antinous  by  theemporor  Adrian  is  supposed  to  have 
been  a  sacrifice  of  tliat  kind.  Dion  Cassius  says,  that  Adrian,  who  had 
apphed  liimself  tothe  study  of  magic,  being  deceived  by  the  principles 
of  that  black  Egyptian  art  into  a  belief  that  he  would  be  rendered  im- 
mortal by  a  voluntary  human  sacrifice  to  the  infernal  gods,  accepted  the 
offer  which  Antinous  made  of  himself. 

1  have  somewhere  met  with  a  commentary  on  this  to  the  following 
effect : 

The  Christian  religion,  in  the  time  of  Adrian,  was  rapidly  spreading 
throughout  the  empire,  and  the  doctrine  of  gaining  eternal  life  by  the 
expiatory  offering  was  openly  preached.  The  Egyptian  priests,  who 
pretended  to  be  in  possession  of  all  knowledge,  affected  to  be  acquainted 
with  this  mystery  also.  Tlie  emperor  was,  by  his  taste  and  his  vices, 
attached  to  the  old  religiou ;  but  he  trembled  at  the  truths  disclosed  by 
the  revelation  ;  and  in  this  state  of  apprehension,  his  thirst  of  know- 
ledge and  his  fcnrs  led  him  to  consult  the  priests  of  Osiris  and  Isis ;  and 
they  impressed  him  with  a  notion  that  the  infernal  deities  would  be  ap- 

R eased  by  the  sacrifice  of  a  human  being  dear  to  him,  and  who  loved 
im  so  entirely  as  to  lay  down  his  life  for  him.  Antinous,  moved  by  the 
anxiety  of  his  imperial  master,  when  all  others  had  refused,  consented 
to  sacrifice  himself;  and  it  was  for  tliis  devotion  that  Adrian  caused  his 
memory  to  be  hallowed  with  religious  rites. 


LORD   BTRON. 


211 


was  done  in  that  unapproachable  chamber  undiviilged, 
while  we  are  darkly  taught,  that  within  it  lie  the 
relics  or  the  ashes  of  the  "  one  without  a  tomb." 


VI' 


I. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


sedloliave 
1,  who  had 


State  of  Byron  in  Svntzerland — He  goes  to  Venice — The  _  fourth  Canto 
of  Childe  Harold — Ruminatimi  on  his  own  Condition— Beppo — La- 
ment  of  Tasso — Curious  Example  ofByrorrCs  metaphysical  Love, 

The  situation  of  Lord  Byron  in  Switzerland  was 
comfortless.  He  found  that  "  the  mountain  palaces 
of  Nature"  afforded  no  asylum  to  a  haunted  heart ; 
he  was  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  even  dissatisfied  that 
the  world  had  not  done  him  enough  of  wrong  to 
justify  his  misanthropy. 

Some  expectation  that  his  lady  would  repent  of 
her  part  in  the  separation  probably  induced  him  to 
linger  in  the  vicinity  of  Geneva,  the  thoroughfare  of 
the  travelling  English,  whom  he  affected  to  shun. 
If  it  were  so,  he  was  disappointed,  and,  his  hopes  be- 
ing frustrated,  he  broke  up  the  establishment  he  had 
formed  there  and  crossed  the  Alps.  After  visiting 
some  of  the  celebrated  scenes  and  places  in  the  north 
of  Italy  he  passed  on  to  Venice,  where  he  domiciled 
himself  for  a  time. 

During  his  residence  at  Venice  Lord  Byron  avoided 
as  much  as  possible  any  intercourse  with  his  country- 
men. This  was  perhaps  in  some  degree  necessary, 
and  it  was  natural  in  the  state  of  his  mind.  He  had 
become  an  object  of  great  public  interest  by  his  ta- 
lents ;  the  stories  connected  with  his  domestic  trou- 
bles had  also  increased  his  notoriety,  and  in  such 
circumstances  he  could  not  but  shrink  from  the  in- 
quisition of  mere  curiosity.    But  there  was  an  inso- 


'5.^*,;':- 


rm 


(j<^, 


r  ■: 


ip 


«|, 


212 


THE    LIFE    OF 


lence  in  the  tone  with  which  he  declares  his  "  utter 
abhorrence  of  any  contact  with  the  travelling  En- 
glish," that  can  neither  be  commended  for  its  spirit, 
nOr  palliated  by  any  treatment  he  had  suffered. 
Like  Coriolanus  he  may  have  banished  his  country, 
but  he  had  not,  like  the  Roman,  received  provoca- 
tion :  on  the  contrary,  he  had  been  the  aggressor  in 
the  feuds  with  his  literary  adversaries;  and  there 
was  a  serious  accusation  against  his  morals,  or  at 
least  his  manners,  in  the  circumstances  under  which 
Lady  B3rron  withdrew  from  his  house.  It  was,  how- 
ever, his  misfortune  throughout  life  to  form  a  wrong 
estimate  of  himself  in  every  thing  save  in  his  poetical 
powers. 

A  life  in  Venice  is  more  monotonous  than  in  any 
other  great  city ;  but  a  man  of  genius  carries  with 
him  every  where  a  charm,  which  secures  to  him  both 
variety  and  enjoyment.  Lord  Byron  had  scarcely 
taken  up  his  abode  in  Venice,  when  he  began  the 
fourth  canto  of  Childe  Harold,  which  he  published 
early  in  the  following  year,  and  dedicated  to  his  in- 
defatigable friend  Mr.  Hobhouse  by  an  epistle  dated 
on  the  anniversary  of  his  marriage,  "  the  most  un- 
fortunate day,"  as  he  says,  "  of  his  past  existence." 

In  this  canto  he  has  indulged  his  excursive  mo- 
ralizing beyond  even  the  wide  license  he  took  in  the 
three  preceding  parts ;  but  it  bears  the  impression  of 
more  reading  and  observation.  Though  not  superior 
in  poetical  energy,  it  is  yet  a  higher  work  than  any 
of  them,  and  something  of  a  more  resolved  and  mas- 
culine spirit  pervades  the  reflections,  and  endows,  as 
it  were,  with  thought  and  enthusiasm  the  aspect  of 
the  things  described.  Of  the  merits  of  the  descrip- 
tions, as  of  real  things,  I  am  not  qualified  to  judge: 
the  transcripts  from  the  tablets  of  the  author's  bosom 
he  has  himself  assured  us  are  faithful, 

"  With  regard  to  the  conduct  of  the  last  canto^ 
there  will  be  found  less  of  the  pilgrim  than  in  any  of 
the  preceding,  and  that  little  slightly,  if  at  all,  sepa 


LORD    BYRON. 


213 


"utter    . 
ng  En- 
3  spirit, 
affered. 
ountry, 
rovoca- 
Bssor  in 
d  there 
.s,  or  at 
r  which 
asjhow- 
a  wrong 
poetical 

II  in  any 
ies  with 
lim  both 
scarcely 
jgan  the 
mblished 
o  his  in- 
;le  dated 
[ost  un- 
itence." 
live  mo- 
ik  in  the 
ssion  of 
superior 
an  any 
,ndmas- 
dows,  as 
|spect  of 
descrip- 
judge: 
Is  bosom 

it  canto^ 
any  of 
Lll,  sepa 


rated  from  the  author  speaking  in  his  own  person. 
The  fact  is,  that  I  had  become  weary  of  drawing  a 
line,  which  ever/  one  seemed  determined  not  to  per- 
<'cive :  like  the  Chinese,  in  Goldsmith's  '  Citizen  of 
tlie  World,'  whom  nobody  would  believe  to  be  a 
Chinese,  it  was  in  vain  that  I  asserted  and  imagined 
that  I  had  drawn  a  distinction  between  the  author 
and  the  pilgrim ;  and  the  very  anxiety  to  preserve 
this  difference,  and  the  disappointment  at  finding  it 
unavailing,  so  far  crushed  my  efforts  in  the  composi- 
tion,  that  I  determined  to  abandon  it  altogether — and 
have  done  so." 

This  confession,  though  it  may  not  have  been 
wanted,  gives  a  pathetic  emphasis  to  those  passages 
in  which  the  poet  speaks  of  his  own  feelings.  That 
his  mind  was  jarred,  and  out  of  joint,  there  is  too 
much  reason  to  believe ;  but  he  had  in  some  mea- 
sure overcome  the  misery  that  clung  to  him  during 
the  dismal  time  of  his  sojourn  in  Switzerland,  and 
the  following  passage,  though  breathing  the  sweet 
and  melancholy  spirit  of  dejection,  possesses  a  more 
generous  vein  of  nationality  than  is  often  met  with 
in  his  works,  even  when  the  same  proud  sentiment 
might  have  been  more  fitly  expressed : 


I  've  taught  me  other  tongues— and  in  strange  eyes 
Have  made  me  not  a  stranger ;  to  the  mind 
Which  is  itself,  no  changes  bring  surprise, 
Nor  is  it  harsh  to  make  or  hard  to  find 
A  country  with— aye,  or  without  mankind. 
Yet  was  I  born  where  men  are  proud  to  be. 
Not  without  cause ;  and  should  I  leave  behind 
Th'  inviolate  island  of  the  sage  and  free. 
And  seek  me  out  a  home  by  a  remoter  sea? 

Perhaps  I  lov'd  it  well,  and  should  I  lay 
My  ashes  in  a  soil  which  is  not  mine, 
My  spirit  shall  resume  it— if  we  may. 
Unbodied,  choose  a  sanctuary.    I  twine 
My  hopes  of  being  remernber'd  in  my  line, 
With  my  land's  language ;  if  too  fond  and  fiir 
These  aspirations  in  their  hope  incline — 
If  my  fame  should  be  as  my  Ibrtunes  are. 
Of  hasty  growth  and  blight,  and  dull  oblivion  bar. 


1,  I 


Ml 


»'■  J 


*l 


* 


hi) 


214  THE    LIFE    OF 

My  name  (torn  out  the  temple  where  the  dead 
Are  honour'd  by  the  nations — let  it  be, 
\iid  light  the  laurels  on  a  loftier  head, 
And  be  the  Spartan's  epitaph  on  me : 
"  Sparta  had  many  a  worthier  son  than  he ;" 
Meantime  I  seek  no  sympathies,  nor  need ; 
The  thorns  which  I  have  reap'd  are  of  the  tree 
I  planted— they  have  torn  me — and  I  bleed : 
I  should  have  known  what  flruit  would  spring  tVom  such  a  seed. 


yii;t  I"' 


)in 


It  will  strike  the  reader  as  remarkable,  that  al- 
though the  poet,  in  the  course  of  this  canto,  takes 
occasion  to  allude  to  Dante  and  Tasso,  in  whose 
destinies  there  was  a  shadowy  likeness  of  his  own, 
the  rumination  is  mingled  with  less  of  himself  than 
might  have  been  expected,  especially  when  it  is 
considered  how  much  it  was  a  habit  with  him,  to 
make  his  own  feelings  the  basis  and  substratum  of 
the  sentiments  he  ascribed  to  others.  It  has  also 
more  than  once  surprised  me  that  he  has  so  seldom 
alluded  to  Alfieri,  whom  of  all  poets,  both  in  cha- 
racter and  conduct,  he  most  resembled ;  with  this 
difference,  however,  that  Alfieri  was  possessed  of 
affections  equally  intense  and  durable,  whereas  the 
caprice  of  Byron  made  him  uncertain  in  his  par- 
tialities, or  what  was  the  same  in  effect,  made  his 
friends  set  less  value  on  them  than  perhaps  they 
were  entitled  to. 

Before  Childe  Harold  was  finished,  an  incident 
occurred  which  suggested  to  Byron  a  poem  of  a 
very  different  kind  to  any  he  had  yet  attempted : — 
without  vouching  for  the  exact  truth  of  the  anec- 
dote, I  have  been  told,  that  he  one  day  received  by 
the  mail  a  copy  of  Whistlecraft's  prospectus  and 
specimen  of  an  intended  national  work ;  and,  moved 
by  its  plaj^fulness,  immediately  after  reading  it,  be- 
gan Beppo,  which  he  finished  at  a  sitting.  The 
facility  with  Avhich  he  composed  renders  the  story 
not  improbable ;  but,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  the 
poem  itself  has  the  facetious  flavour  in  it  of  his 
gayety,  stron«er  than  even  his  grave  works  have  of 


LORD   BYRON. 


215 


his  frowardness,  commonly  believed  to  have  been — 
1  think,  unjustly — the  predominant  mood  of  his 
character. 

The  Ode  to  Venice  is  also  to  be  numbered  among 
his  compositions  in  that  city ;  a  spirited  and  indig- 
nant effusion,  full  of  his  peculiar  lurid  fire,  and  rich 
in  a  variety  of  impressive  and  original  images. 
But  there  is  a  still  finer  poem  which  belongs  to  this 

Eeriod  of  his  history,  though  written,  I  believe, 
efore  he  reached  Venice — The  Lament  of  Tasso : 
and  I  am  led  to  notice  it  the  more  particularly,  as 
one  of  its  noblest  passages  affords  an  illustration 
of  the  opinion  which  I  have  early  maintained — that 
Lord  Byron's  extraordinary  pretensions  to  the  in- 
fluence of  love  was  but  a  metaphysical  conception 
of  the  passion. 

It  is  no  marvel— ft-om  my  very  birth 

My  soul  was  drunk  with  love,  which  did  pervade 

And  mingle  with  whate'er  I  saw  on  earth; 

Of  objects  all  inanimate  I  made 

Idols,  and  out  of  wild  and  lovely  flowers,  -' 

And  rocks  whereby  they  grew,  a  paradise, 

Where  I  did  lay  me  down  within  the  shade 

Of  waging  trees,  and  dream'd  uncounted  hours. 

tt  has  been  remarked  by  an  anonymous  author 
of  Memoirs  of  Lord  Byron,  a  work  written  with 
considerable  talent  and  acumen,  that  "  this  is  so 
far  from  being  in  character,  that  it  is  the  very  re- 
verse ;  for  whether  Tasso  was  in  his  senses  or  not, 
if  his  love  was  sincere,  he  would  have  made  the 
object  of  his  affection  the  sole  theme  of  his  medita- 
tion, instead  of  generalizing  his  passion,  and  talking 
about  the  original  sympathies  of  his  nature."  Tu 
truth,  no  poet  has  better  described  love  than  Byron 
has  his  own  peculiar  passion. 

His  love  was  passion's  essence— as  a  tree 
On  fire  by  lightning ;  with  ethereal  flame 
Kindled  he  was,  and  blasted ;  for  to  be 
Thus  enamour'd  were  in  him  the  same. 


^ 


V*  .Ji^^P-^ 


^ 


Ir' 

'111  I 

'I!  !'■ 


(!!» 


11^ 


216  THE   LIFE   OF 

But  his  wan  nut  (hu  love  of  living  daino, 
Nor  of  the  (load  who  rise  upon  our  tlroujns, 
fiut  of  idoal  beauty,  wliich  bofairu! 
In  him  existciu-c,  and  o'erllowini^  trcrns 
Along  his  burning  page,  distemper'd  tliough  it  fte«;ui.s. 

In  tracing  the  course  of  Lord  Byron's  career,  1 
have  not  deemed  it  at  all  necessary  to  advert  to  the 
instances  of  his  generosity,  or  to  conduct  less  plea- 
sant to  record.  Enough  has  appeared  to  show  that 
he  was  neither  deficient  in  warmth  of  heart  nor  iu 
less  amiable  feelings ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  it  is  not 
probable  that  either  in  his  charities  or  his  pleasures 
he  was  greatly  different  from  other  young  men, 
though  he  undoubtedly  had  a  wayward  delight  iu 
magnifying  his  excesses,  not  in  what  was  to  his 
credit,  like  most  men,  but  in  what  was  calculated  to 
do  him  no  honour.  More  notoriety  has  been  given 
to  an  instance  of  lavish  liberality  at  Venice,  than 
the  case  deserved,  though  it  was  unquestionably 
prompted  by  a  charitable  impulse.  The  house  of  a 
shoemaker,  near  his  Lordship's  residence,  in  St.  Sa- 
muel, was  burned  to  the  ground,  with  all  it  contained, 
by  which  the  proprietor  was  reduced  to  indigence. 
Byron  not  only  caused  a  new  but  a  superior  house 
to  be  erected,  and  also  presented  the  sufferer  witli  a 
sum  of  money  equal  in  value  to  the  whole  of  his 
stock  in  trade  and  furniture.  I  should  endanger  my 
reputation  for  impartiality  if  I  did  not,  as  a  fair  set- 
off to  this,  also  mention  that  it  is  said  he  bought  for 
five  hundred  crowns  a  baker's  wife.  There  might 
be  charity  ui  this,  too. 


Lord  bvron. 


217 


IliS. 


aveer,  I 
rt  to  the 
!ss  plea- 
low  that 
t  nor  in 

it  is  not 
leasurcs 
ng  men, 
Blight  iu 
IS  to  his 
ulated  to 
en  given 
ice,  than 
stionably 
)use  of  a 
in  St.  Sa- 
pntained, 
idigence. 
or  house 
dr  witJi  a 
le  of  his 
mger  my 

fair  set- 
)ught  for 
re  might 


^  CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Removes  to  Ravemia — The  Counters  Guiccioli. 

Although  Lord  Byron  resided  between  two  and 
three  years  at  Venice,  he  was  never  much  attached 
to  it.  "  To  see  a  city  die  daily,  as  she  does,"  said 
he,  "  is  a  sad  contemplation.  I  sought  to  distract 
my  mind  from  a  sense  of  her  desolation  and  my  own 
solitude,  by  plunging  into  a  vortex  that  was  any  thing 
but  pleasure.  When  one  gets  into  a  mill-stream, 
it  is  difficult  to  swim  against  it,  and  keep  out  of  the 
wheels."  He  became  tired  and  disgusted  with  the  life 
he  led  at  Venice,  and  was  glad  to  turn  his  back  on  it. 
About  the  close  of  the  year  1819  he  accordingly  re- 
moved to  Ravenna ;  but  before  I  proceed  to  speak 
of  the  works  which  he  composed  at  Ravenna,  it  is 
necessary  to  explain  some  particulars  respecting  a 
personal  aftair,  the  influence  of  which  on  at  least 
one  of  his  productions  is  as  striking  as  any  of  the 
many  instances  already  described  upon  others.  I 
allude  to  the  intimacy  which  he  formed  with  the 
young  Countess  Guiccioli. 

This  lady,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  was  married  to 
the  Count,  one  of  the  richest  noblemen  in  Romagna, 
but  far  advanced  in  life.  "  From  the  first,"  said 
Lord  Byron,  in  his  account  of  her,  "  they  had  se- 
parate apartments,  and  she  always  called  him,  Sir  \ 
What  could  be  expected  from  such  a  preposterous 
connexion.  For  some  time  she  was  an  Angiolina 
and  he  a  Marino  Faliero,  a  good  old  man;  but 
young  Italian  women  are  not  satisfied  with  good  old 
men,  and  the  venerable  Count  did  not  object  to  her 
availing  herself  of  the  privileges  of  her  country  in 
selecting  a  cicisbeo ;  an  Italian  would  have  made 

T 


*i''i 


% 


a- 


i,  ■' 


ll'ir 


I' IP' 

''  I. 


m 


if 


<;     't^: 


218 


THE   LIF£    OF 


it  quite  agreeable :  indeed,  for  some  time  he  winked 
at  our  intimacy,  but  at  Icngtli  made  an  exception 
against  me,  as  a  foreigner,  a  heretic,  an  Englishman, 
and,  what  was  worse  than  all,  a  liberal. 

"  He  insisted — Teresa  was  as  obstinate — her 
family  took  her  part.  Catholics  cannot  get  divorced; 
but  to  the  scandal  of  all  Romagna,  the  matter  was 
at  last  referred  to  the  pope,  who  ordered  her  a  sepa- 
rate maintenance  on  condition  that  she  should  re- 
side under  her  father's  roof.  All  this  was  not  agree- 
able, and  at  length  I  was  forced  to  smuggle  her  out 
of  Ravenna,  having  discovered  a  plot  laid  with  the 
sanction  of  the  legate,  for  shutting  her  up  in  a  con- 
vent for  life." 

The  Countess  Guiccioli  was  at  this  time  about 
twenty,  but  she  appeared  younger ;  her  complexion 
was  fair,  with  large,  dark,  languishing  eyes;  and 
her  auburn  hair  fell  in  great  profusion  of  natural 
ringlets  over  her  shapely  shoulders.  Her  features 
were  not  so  regular  as  in  their  expression  pleasing, 
and  there  was  an  amiable  gentleness  in  her  voii^e 
which  was  peculiarly  interesting.  Leigh  Hunt's 
account  of  her  is  not  essentially  dissimilar  from 
any  other  that  I  have  either  heard  of  or  met  with. 
He  differs,  however,  in  one  respect,  from  every 
other,  in  saying  that  her  hair  was  yellow ;  but  con- 
sidering the  curiosity  which  this  young  lady  has  ex- 
cited, perhaps  it  may  be  as  well  to  transcribe  his 
description  at  length,  especially  as  he  appears  to 
have  taken  some  pains  on  it,  and  more  particularly 
as  her  destiny  seems  at  present  to  promise  that  the 
interest  for  her  is  likely  to  be  revived  by  another 
unhappy  English  connexion. 

"  Her  appearance,"  says  Mr.  Hunt,  "  might  have 
reminded  an  English  spectator  of  Chaucer's  heroine: 

Yclothed  was  she,  fresh  for  to  devise, 
Her  yellow  liair  was  braided  in  a  tress 
Behind  her  back,  a  yardt  long  I  guess. 
And  in  the  garden  (as  the  same  uprist) 
She  walketh  up  and  dowii,  where  as  her  list. 


LORD   BYRON.  210 

And  then,  as  Dryden  has  it : 

At  every  turn  Rhe  made  a  little  stnnd, 
And  thrust  ammig  the  thorns  her  lily  hand. 

Madame  Guiccioli,  who  was  at  that  time  about 
twenty,  was  handsome  and  lady-like,  with  an  agree- 
able manner,  and  a  voice  not  partaking  too  much  of 
the  Italian  fervour    to  be  gentle.     She  had  just 
enough  of  it  to  give  her  speaking  a  grace — none  of 
her  graces  appeared  entirely  free  from  art;  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  did  they  betray  enough  of  it  to  give 
you  an  ill  opinion  of  her  sincerity  and  good-humour. 
*  *  *  *    Her  hair  was  what  the  poet  has  described, 
or  rather  blonde  with  an  inclination  to  yellow;  a 
very  fair  and  delicate  yellow,  at  all  events,  and 
within  the  limits  of  the  poetical.    She  had  regular 
features  of  the  order  properly  called  handsome,  in 
distinction  to  prettiness  or  piquancy;  being  well 
proportioned  to  one  another,  large,  rather  than  other- 
wise, but  without  coarseness,  and  more  harmonious 
than  interesting.    Her  nose  was   the   handsomest 
of  the  kind  I  ever  saw ;  and  I  have  known  her  both 
smile  very  sweetly,  and  look  intelligently,  when  liOrd 
Byron  has  said  something  kind  to  her.    I  should  not 
say,  however,  that  she  was  a  very  intelligent  person. 
Both  her  wisdom  and  her  want  of  wisdom  were  on 
the  side  of  her  feelings,  in  which  there  was  doubtless 
mingled  a  good  deal  of  the  self-love  natural  to  a 
flattered  beauty.*  *  *  *    In  a  word,  Madame  Guiccioli 
was  a  kind  of  buxom  parlour-boarder,  compressing 
herself  artificially  into  dignity  and  elegance,  and 
fancying  she  walked,  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world, 
a  heroine  by  the  side  of  a  poet.    When  I  saw  her 
at  Monte  Nero,  near  Leghorn,  she  was  in  a  state  of 
excitement  and  exultation,  and  had  really  something 
of  this  look.    At  that  time,  also,  she  looked  no  older 
than  she  was ;  in  which  respect,  a  rapid  and  very  sin- 
gular change  took  place,  to  the  surprise  of  every 


it 


jB-J*" 


!•  '.<" 


rV. 

..id 


11^ 


W  'ii;^: 


220 


THE   LIFE   OP 


body.  In  the  course  of  a  few  months  she  seemed 
to  have  lived  as  many  years." 

This  is  not  very  perspieuoiis  portraiture,  nor  does 
it  sliow  that  Mr.  Hunt  was  a  very  discerning  observer 
of  (character.  Lord  Byron  himself  is  represented  to 
have  said,  that  extraordinary  pains  were  taken  with 
her  education :  **  Her  conversation  is  lively  without 
being  frivolous ;  without  being  learned,  she  has  read 
all  the  best  authors  of  her  own  and  the  French  lan- 
guage. She  often  conceals  what  she  knows,  from 
the  fear  of  being  thought  to  know  too  much ;  possi- 
bly because  she  knows  I  am  not  fond  of  blues.  To 
use  an  expression  of  Jeffrey's,  *If  she  has  blue 
stockings,  she  contrives  that  her  petticoats  shall  hide 
them.' " 

Lord  Byron  was  at  one  time  much  attached  to 
her ;  nor  could  it  be  doubted  that  their  affection  was 
reciprocal;  bat  in  both,  their  union  outlived  their 
affection,  for  before  his  departure  to  Greece  his 
attachment  had  perished,  and  he  left  her,  as  it  is 
said,  notwithstanding  the  rank  and  opulence  she  had 
forsaken  on  his  account,  without  any  provision.  He 
had  promised,  it  was  reported,  to  settle  two  thou- 
sand pounds  on  her,  but  he  forgot  the  intention,  or 
died  before  it  was  carried  into  effect.*  On  her  part, 
the  estrangement  was  of  a  different  and  curious 
kind — she  had  not  come  to  hate  him,  but  she  told  a 
lady,  the  friend  of  a  mutual  acquaintance  of  liord 
Byron  and  mine,  that  she  feared  more  than  loved  him. 


I 


'■     it 


'r.;ti  ■ 

■   If'.'' 

!f!  ::it,i 

1':'  !il;  1 


*  Mr.  Hobhouse  has  assured  me  that  this  information  is  not  correct. 
"  I  happen,"  says  he,  "  to  know  that  Ijord  Byron  offfered  to  give  the  Guic- 
cioli  a  sum  of  money  outright,  or  to  leave  it  to  her  by  his  will.  I  also 
happen  to  know  that  the  lady  would  not  hear  of  any  such  present  or 
provision;  for  1  have  a  letter  in  which  Lord  Byron  extols  her  disinte- 
restedness, and  mentions  that  he  has  met  with  a  similar  reAisal  fVom 
another  female.  As  to  the  being  in  destitute  circumstances,  I  cannot 
believe  it ;  for  Count  Gamba,  her  brother,  whom  I  knew  very  well  after 
Lord  Byron's  death,  never  made  any  complaint  or  mention  of  such  a 
fact :  add  to  which,  I  know  a  maintenance  was  provided  for  her  by  her 
husband,  in  consequence  of  a  law  process,  bofhre  the  death  of  Ijard 
Byron." 


..  V, 


if 


,ini 


LORD   BYRON. 


221 


seemed 

nor  does 
observer 
seiited  to 
ken  with 
{ without 
has  read 
ench  lan- 
)ws,  from 
;h;  possi- 
lues.  To 
has  blue 
shall  hide 

tached  to 
iction  was 
ived  their 
rreece  his 
r,  as  it  is 
;e  she  had 
sion.  He 
two  thou- 
;ention,  or 
1  her  part, 
A  curious 
she  told  a 
B  of  Lord 
ovedhim. 


is  not  correct. 
5ive  the  Guic- 
iwill.  I  also 
ich  present  or 
8  her  disinte- 
reftisal  fVom 
ices,  I  cannot 
ery  well  after 
ion  of  such  a 
for  her  by  her 
loath  of  Lord 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Rtnidence  in  Ravenna — The  Carbonari— Byron^ a  Part  in  their  Plot— 
The  Murder  of  the  military  Commandant — The  poetical  Use  of  th§ 
Incident — Marino  Falieru — Reflect  ions— The  Prophecy  of  Dante. 

Lord  Byron  has  said  himself,  that  except  Greece, 
he  was  never  so  attached  to  any  place  in  his  life  as 
to  Ravenna.  The  peasantry  lie  thought  the  best 
people  in  the  world,  and  their  women  the  most 
beautiful.  "  Those  at  Tivoli  and  Frescati,"  said  he, 
"  are  mere  Sabines,  coarse  creatures,  compared  to 
the  Romagnese.  You  may  talk  of  your  English 
women ;  and  it  is  true,  that  out  of  one  hundred  Ita- 
lian and  English  you  will  find  thirty  of  the  latter 
handsome ;  but  then  there  will  be  one  Italian  on  the 
other  side  of  the  scale,  who  will  more  than  balance 
the  deficit  in  numbers — one  who,  like  the  Florence 
Venus,  has  no  rival,  and  can  have  none  in  the  north. 
I  found  also  at  Ravenna  much  education  and  libe- 
rality of  thinking  among  the  hi|?ht  classes.  The 
climate  is  delightful.  I  was  not  broken  in  upon  by 
society.  Ravenna  lies  out  of  the  way  of  travellers. 
I  was  never  tired  of  my  rides  in  the  pine  forest :  it 
breathes  of  the  De(;ameron ;  it  is  poetical  ground. 
Francesca  lived  and  Dante  was  exiled  and  died  at 
Ravenna.  There  is  somet^iing  inspiring  in  such 
an  air. 

"  The  people  liked  mt  ^  .ach  as  they  hated  the 
government.  It  is  not  a  .  tie  to  say,  I  was  popular 
with  all  the  leaders  of  the  constitutional  party. 
They  knew  that  I  came  from  a  land  of  liberty,  and 
wished  well  to  their  cause.  1  would  have  espoused 
it,  too,  and  assisted  them  to  shake  off  their  fetters. 
They  knew  my  character,  for  I  had  been  living  two 
years  at  Venice,  where  many  of  the  Ravennese  have 

T2 


-*». 


^ 


ifcl'.. 


i^ 


222 


THE   LIFE   OF 


houses.  I  did  not,  however,  take  part  in  their  in- 
trigues, nor  join  in  their  political  coteries;  but  I  had  a 
magazine  of  one  hundred  stand  of  arms  in  the  house, 
when  every  thing  was  ripe  for  revolt — a  curse  on 
Carignan's  imbecility !  I  could  have  pardoned  him 
that,  too,  if  he  had  not  impeached  his  partisans. 

"  The  proscription  was  immense  in  Romagna,  and 
embraced  many  of  the  first  nobles :  almost  all  my 
friends,  among  the  rest  the  Gambas  (the  father  and 
brother  of  the  Countess  Guiccioli),  who  took  no  part 
in  the  affair,  were  included  in  it.  They  were  exiled, 
and  their  possessions  confiscated.  They  knew  that 
this  must  eventually  drive  me  out  of  the  country.  I 
did  not  follow  them  immediately :  I  was  not  to  be 
bullied — I  had  myself  fallen  under  the  eye  of  the 
government.  If  they  could  have  got  sufllcient  proof 
they  would  have  arrested  me." 

The  latter  part  of  this  declaration  bears,  in  my 
opinion,  indubitable  marks  of  being  genuine.  It  has 
that  magnifying  mysticism  about  it  which  more  than 
any  other  quality  cnaracterized  Lord  Byron's  intima- 
tions concerning  himself,  and  his  own  affairs ;  but  it 
is  a  little  clea^-er  than  I  should  have  expected  in  the 
acknowledgttit-nt  of  the  part  he  was  preparing  to 
take  in  the  insurrection.  He  does  not  seem  here  to 
be  sensible,  that  in  confessing  so  much,  he  has  justi- 
fied the  jealousy  with  which  he  was  regarded. 

"  Shortly  after  the  plot  was  discovered,"  he  pro- 
ceeds to  say,  "  I  received  several  anonymous  letters, 
advising  me  to  discontinue  my  forest  rides ;  but  I 
entertained  no  apprehensions  of  treachery,  and  was 
more  on  horseback  than  ever.  I  never  stir  out  with- 
out being  well  armed,  nor  sleep  without  pistols. 
They  knew  that  I  never  missed  my  aim ;  perhaps 
this  saved  me." 

An  event  occurred  at  this  time  at  Ravenna  that 
made  a  deep  impression  on  Lord  Byron.  The  com- 
mandant of  the  place,  who,  though  suspected  of  being 
secretly  a  Carbonaro,  was  too  powerful  a  man  to  be 


LORD   BYRON. 


223 


leir  m- 
I  had  a 
J  house, 
iirse  on 
led  him 
ns. 

rna,  and 
all  my 
her  and 
no  part 
i  exiled, 
lew  that 
ntry.  I 
Dt  to  be 
3  of  the 
nt  proof 

s,  in  my 
.  It  has 
lore  than 
3  intima- 
s ;  but  it 
d  in  the 
aring  to 
n  here  to 
las  justi- 
d. 

he  pro- 
s  letters, 
but  I 
and  was 
)ut  with- 
pistols. 
perhaps 

ma  that 

fhe  com- 

of  being 

lan  to  be 


arrested,  was  assassinated  opposite  to  his  residence. 
The  measures  adopted  to  screen  Lhe  murderer  proved, 
in  the  opinion  of  his  Lordship,  that  the  assassination 
had  taken  place  by  order  of  the  police,  and  that  the 
spot  where  it  was  perpetrated  had  been  selected  by 
choice.  Byron  at  the  moment  had  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  and  his  horse  started  at  the  report  of  the  shot. 
On  looking  round  he  saw  a  man  throw  down  a  car- 
bine and  run  away,  and  another  stretched  on  the 
pavement  near  him.  On  hastening  to  the  spot,  he 
found  it  was  the  commandant ;  a  crowd  collected, 
but  no  one  offered  any  assistance.  His  Lordship 
directed  his  servant  to  lift  the  bleeding  body  into  the 
palace — ^he  assisted  himseii*  in  the  act,  though  it  was 
represented  to  him  that  he  might  incur  the  displea- 
sure of  the  government — and  the  gentleman  was 
already  dead.  His  adjutant  followed  the  body  into 
the  house.  "  I  remember,"  says  his  Lordship,  "  his 
lamentation  over  him — *  Poor  devil !  he  would  not 
have  harmed  a  dog.' " 

It  was  from  the  murder  of  this  commandant  that 
the  poet  sketched  the  scene  of  the  assassination  in 
the  fifth  Canto  of  Don  Juan. 

The  other  evening  ('twas  on  Friday  last), 

This  is  a  fact,  and  no  poetic  fable- 
Just  as  my  great  coat  was  about  me  cast. 

My  hat  and  gloves  still  lying  on  the  table, 
I  heard  a  shot— 't  was  eight  o'clock  scarce  past, 
And  running  out  as  fast  as  I  was  able, 
I  found  the  military  commandant 
Stretch'd  in  the  street,  and  able  scarce  to  pant. 

Poor  fellow !  for  some  reason,  surely  bad. 

They  had  him  slain  with  five  slugs,  and  left  him  there 
To  perish  on  the  pavement :  so  I  had 
Him  borne  into  the  house,  and  up  the  stair ; 
The  man  was  gone :  in  some  Italian  quarrel 
Kill'd  by  Ave  bullets  flrom  an  old  gun-barrel. 

The  scars  of  his  old  wounds  were  near  his  new, 
Those  honourable  scars  which  bought  him  fame, 
■   And  horrid  was  the  contrast  to  the  view— 

But  let  me  quit  the  theme,  as  such  things  claim 
'     .     Perhaps  ev'n  more  attention  than  is  due 

From  me :  I  gazed  (as oft  I've  gazed  the  same) 


\\ 


lUi- 


1;"'' 


*«■ 


11'' 


224  THE  LIFE   OF 

To  try  if  I  could  wrench  aught  out  of  death 
Which  should  conflrm,  or  shake,  or  make  a  faith. 

Whether  Marino  Faliero  was  written  at  Ravenna 
or  completed  there,  I  have  not  ascertained,  but  it  was 
planned  at  Venice,  and  as  far  back  as  1817.  I  believe 
this  is  considered  about  the  most  ordinary  perform- 
ance of  all  Lord  Bjnron's  works ;  but  if  it  is  consi- 
dered with  reference  to  the  time  in  which  it  was  writ- 
ten, it  will  probably  be  found  to  contain  many  great 
and  impressive  passages.  Has  not  the  latter  part  of 
the  second  scene  in  the  first  act  reference  to  the_con- 
dition  of  Venice  when  his  Lordship  was  there  ?  And 
is  not  the  description  which  Israel  Bertuccio  gives 
of  the  conspirators  applicable  to,  as  it  was  probably 
derived  from,  the  Carbonari,  with  whom  there  is  rea- 
son to  say  Byron  was  himself  disposed  to  take  a  part  I 


'll 

I'.li!! 

1  1 
1 

11 

i! 

M^ 

iiiii 

Know,  then,  that  there  are  met  and  sworn  in  secret 

A  band  of  brethren,  valiant  hearts  and  true ; 

Men  who  have  proved  all  fortunes,  and  have  long 

Grieved  over  that  of  Venice,  and  have  right 

To  do  so;  having  served  her  in  all  climes, 

And  having  rescued  her  firom  foreign  foes. 

Would  do  the  same  for  those  within  her  walls. 

They  are  not  numerous,  nor  yet  too  few 

For  their  great  purpose ;  they  have  arms,  and  means. 

And  hearts,  and  hopes,  and  faith,  and  patient  courage. 

This  drama,  to  be  properly  appreciated,  both  in  its 
taste  and  feeling,  should  be  considered  as  addressed 
to  the  Italians  of  the  epoch  at  which  it  was  written. 
Had  it  been  written  in  the  Italian  instead  of  the  Eng- 
lish language,  and  could  have  come  out  in  any  city 
of  Italy,  the  effect  would  have  been  prodigious.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  work  not  to  be  estimated  by  the  delinea- 
tions of  character  nor  the  force  of  passion  expressed 
in  it,  but  altogether  by  the  apt  and  searching  sarcasm 
of  the  political  allusions.  Viewed  with  reference  to 
the  time  and  place  in  which  it  was  composed,  it 
would  probably  deserve  to  be  ranked  as  a  high  and 
bold  effort :  simply  as  a  drama,  it  may  not  be  entitled 


LORD   BYRON. 


225 


tavenna 
It  it  was 
[believe 
)erfonn- 
s  consi- 
iraswrit- 
ny  great 
r  part  of 
the  con- 
el  'And 
;io  gives 
probably 
re  is  rea- 
LeapartT 


IS, 

ige. 


[oth  in  its 
iddressed 
i  written, 
the  Eng- 
any  city 
fious.    It 
3  delinea- 
^xpiessed 
t  sarcasm 
[erence  to 
jiposed,  it 
high  and 
e  entitled 


to  rank  above  tragedies  of  the  second  or  third  class. 
But  I  mean  not  to  set  my  opinion  of  this  work  against 
that  of  the  public,  the  English  public ;  all  I  contend 
for  is,  that  it  possesses  many  passages  of  uncommon 
beauty,  and  that  its  chief  tragic  merit  consists  in  its 
political  indignation ;  but  above  all,  that  it  is  another 
and  a  strong  proof,  too,  of  what  I  have  been  endea- 
vouring to  show,  that  the  power  of  the  poet  consisted 
in  giving  vent  to  his  own  feelings,  and  not,  like  his 
great  brethren,  or  even  his  less,  in  the  invention  of 
situations  or  of  appropriate  sentiments.  It  is,  per- 
haps, as  it  stands,  not  fit  to  succeed  in  representa- 
tion ;  but  it  is  so  rich  in  matter  that  it  would  not  be 
a  difficult  task  to  make  out  of  little  more  than  the 
third  part  a  tragedy  which  would  not  dishonour  the 
English  stage. 

I  have  jiever  been  able  to  understand  why  it  has 
been  so  often  supposed  that  Lord  Byron  was  actu- 
ated in  the  composition  of  his  different  works  by  any 
other  motive  than  enjoyment :  perhaps  no  poet  had 
ever  less  of  an  ulterior  purpose  in  his  mind  during 
the  fits  of  inspiration  (for  the  epithet  may  be  applied 
correctly  to  him  and  to  the  moods  in  which  he  was 
accustomed  to  write)  than  this  singular  and  impas- 
sioned man.  Those  who  imagine  that  he  had  any 
intention  to  impair  the  reverence  due  to  religion,  or 
to  weaken  the  hinges  of  moral  action,  give  him  cre- 
dit for  far  more  design  and  prospective  purpose  than 
he  possessed.  They  could  have  known  nothing  of 
the  man,  the  main  defect  of  whose  character,  in  rela- 
tion to  every  thing,  was  in  having  too  little  of  the 
element  or  principle  of  purpose.  He  was  a  thing  of 
impulses,  and  to  judge  of  what  he  either  said  or  did, 
as  the  results  of  predetermination,  was  not  only  to 
do  the  harshest  injustice,  but  to  show  a  total  igno- 
rance of  his  character.  His  whole  fault,  the  dark- 
est course  of  those  flights  and  deviations  from  pro- 
priety which  have  drawn  upon  him  the  severest  ani- 
madversion, lay  in  the  unbridled  state  of  his  impulses. 


% 


226 


THE   LIFE   OF 


.f^^ 


n. 


^     i^l 


.«v 


i!^:-i 


II'' 


He  felt,  but  never  reasoned.  I  am  led  to  make  these 
observations  by  noticing  the  ungracious,  or,  more 
justly,  the  illiberal  spirit  in  which  The  Prophecy  of 
Dante,  which  was  published  with  the  Marino  Fahero, 
has  been  treated  by  the  anonymous  author  of  Me- 
moirs of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Lord  Byron. 

Of  The  Prophecy  of  Dante  I  am  no  particular  ad 
mirer.  It  contains,  unquestionably,  stanzas  of  re- 
sounding energy,  but  the  general  verse  of  the  poem 
is  as  harsh  and  abrupt  as  the  clink  and  clang  of  the 
cymbal ;  moreover,  even  for  a  prophecy,  it  is  too  ob- 
scure, and  though  it  possesses  abstractedly  too  many 
fine  thoughts,  and  too  much  of  the  combustion  of 
heroic  passion  to  be  regarded  as  a  failure,  yet  it  will 
never  be  popular.  It  is  a  quariy,  however,  of  very 
precious  poetical  expression. 

It  was  written  at  Ravenna,  and  at  the  suggestion 
of  the  Guiccioli,  to  whom  it  is  dedicated  in  a  sonnet, 
prettily  but  inharmoniously  turned.  Like  all  his 
other  best  performances,  this  rugged  but  masterly 
composition  draws  its  highest  interest  from  himself 
and  his  own  feelings,  and  can  only  be  rightly  appre- 
ciated by  observing  how  fitly  many  of  the  bitter 
breathings  of  Dante  apply  to  his  own  exiled  and  out- 
cast condition.  For,  however  much  he  was  himself 
the  author  of  his  own  banishment,  he  felt  when  he 
wrote  these  haughty  verses  that  lie  had  been  some- 
times shunned. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  Tragedy  of  Sardanapahuf  considered,  with  Reference  to  Lord 
Byroii's  own  Circumsta7ices — Cain. 

Among  the  mental  enjoyments  which  endeared  Ra- 
venna to  Lord  Byron,  the  composition  of  Sardana- 


«• 

-y^, 

;!■■ 


iili'i';:'. 


LORD   BYRON. 


227 


ence  to  Lord 


palus  may  be  reckoned  the  chief.  It  seems  to  have 
been  conceived  in  a  happier  mood  than  any  of  all  his 
other  works ;  for,  even  while  it  inculcates  the  dan- 
gers of  voluptuous  indulgence,  it  breathes  the  very 
essence  of  benevolence  and  philosophy.  Pleasure 
takes  so  much  of  the  character  of  virtue  in  it,  that  but 
for  the  moral  taught  by  the  consequences,  enjoyment 
might  be  mistaken  for  duty.  I  have  never  been  able 
to  satisfy  myself  in  what  the  resemblance  consists, 
but  from  the  first  reading  it  has  always  appeared  to 
me  that  there  was  some  elegant  similarity  between 
the  characters  of  Sardanapulus  and  Hamlet,  and  my 
inclination  has  sometimes  led  me  to  imagine  that  the 
foimer  was  the  nobler  conception  of  the  two. 

The  Assyrian  monarch,  like  the  Prince  of  Denmark, 
is  highly  endowed,  capable  of  the  greatest  undertak- 
ings ;  he  is  yet  softened  by  a  philosophic  indolence 
of  nature  that  makes  him  undervalue  the  enterprises 
of  ambition,  and  all  those  objects  in  the  attainment  of 
which  so  much  of  glory  is  supposed  to  consist.  They 
are  both  alike  incapable  of  rousing  themselves  from 
the  fond  reveries  of  moral  theoiy,  even  when  the 
strongest  motives  are  presented  to  them.  Hamlet 
hesitates  to  act,  though  his  father's  spirit  hath  come 
from  death  to  incite  him ;  and  Sardanapalus  derides 
the  achievements  that  had  raised  his  ancestors  to  an 
equality  with  the  gods. 

Thou  wouldst  have  me  go 
Forth  as  a  conqucrer.— By  all  the  stars 
Which  the  Chaldeans  read !  the  restless  slaves 
Deserve  that  I  should  curse  them  with  their  wishes 
And  lead  them  forth  to  glory. 


Again: 


The  ungrateAil  and  ungracious  slaves !  they  murmur 

Because  I  have  not  shed  their  blood,  nor  led  them 

To  dry  into  the  deserts'  dust  by  myriads, 

Or  whitun  with  ttiuir  bones  the  banks  of  Ganges, 

i\or  decimated  them  with  savage  laws, 

Nor  sweated  thcra  to  build  up  pyramids 

Or  Babylonian  walls. 


II 


1l 


1    !■  • 

I'  r»r 


m 


'h 

m 


%^' 


I'. 


%^, 


228 


THE   LIFE   OF 


The  nothingness  of  kingly  greatness  and  national 
pride  were  never  before  so  finely  contemned  as  by  the 
voluptuous  Assyrian,  and  were  the  scorn  not  miti- 
gated by  the  skilful  intermixture  of  mercifulness  and 
philanthropy,  the  character  would  not  be  endurable. 
But  when  the  same  voice  which  pronounced  con- 
tempt on  the  toils  of  honour  says, 

Enough 
For  me  if  I  can  make  my  subjects  feel 
The  weight  of  human  misery  less, 

it  is  impossible  to  repress  the  liking  which  the  hu- 
mane spirit  of  that  thought  is  calculated  to  inspire. 
Nor  is  there  any  want  of  dignity  in  Sardanapalus, 
even  when  lolling  softest  in  his  luxury. 


Must  I  consume  my  life— this  little  life — 
In  guarding  against  all  may  make  it  less ! 
It  is  not  worth  so  much — It  were  to  die 
Before  my  hour  to  live  in  dread  of  death.  *  *  * 
Till  now  no  drop  of  an  Assyrian  vein 
Hath  flow'd  for  me,  nor  hath  the  smallest  coin 
Of  Nineveh's  vast  treasure  e'er  been  lavish'd 
On  objects  which  could  cost  her  sons  a  tear. 
If  then  they  hate  me 't  is  because  I  hate  not 
If  they  rebel 't  is  because  I  oppress  not. 


This  is  imagined  in  the  true  tone  of  Epicurean 
virtue,  and  it  rises  to  magnanimity  when  he  adds  in 
compassionate  scorn, 

Oh,  men !  ye  must  be  ruled  with  scythes,  not  sceptres, 
And  mow'd  down  like  the  grass,  else  all  we  reap 
Is  rank  abundance  and  a  rotten  liarvest 
Of  discontents  infecting  the  fair  soil. 
Making  a  desert  of  fertility. 

But  the  graciousness  in  the  conception  of  the 
character  of  Sardanapulus,  is  not  to  be  found  only 
in  these  sentiments  of  his  meditations,  but  in  all  and 
every  situation  in  which  the  character  is  placed. 
When  Salamenes  bids  him  not  sheath  his  sword — 


LORD   BYRON. 


229 


ilional 
by  the 

it  miti- 
3SS  and 
[urable. 
^,d  con- 


the  hu- 
1  inspire, 
mapalus, 


Ipicurean 
le  adds  in 


beptres, 
IP 


In  of  the 
^und  only 
in  all  and 
IS  placed, 
sword— 


'T  is  the  sole  sceptre  left  you  now  with  safely. 

The  king  replies — 

"  A  heavy  one ;"  and  subjoins,  as  if  to  conceal  his 
distaste  for  war,  by  ascribing  a  dislike  to  the  sword 
itself, 

The  hilt,  too,  hurts  my  hand. 

It  may  be  asked  why  I  dwell  so  particularly  on 
the  character  of  Sardanapalus.  It  is  admitted  that 
he  is  i\e  most  heroic  of  voluptuaries,  the  most  phi- 
losopliical  of  the  licentious.  The  first  he  is  undoubt- 
edly, but  he  is  not  licentious ;  and  in  omitting  to  make 
him  so,  the  poet  has  prevented  his  readers  from  dis- 
liking his  character  upon  principle.  It  was  a  skilful 
stroke  of  art  to  do  this ;  had  it  been  otherwise,  and 
had  there  been  no  affection  shown  for  the  Ionian 
slave,  Sardanapalus  would  have  engaged  no  sympa- 
thy. It  is  noi,  however,  with  respect  to  the  ability 
with  which  the  character  has  been  imagined,  nor  to 
the  poetry  with  which  it  is  invested,  that  I  have  so 
particularly  made  it  a  subject  of  criticism ;  it  was  to 
point  out  how  much  in  it  Lord  Byron  has  inter- 
woven of  his  own  best  nature. 

At  the  time  when  he  was  occupied  with  this  great 
work,  he  was  confessedly  in  the  enjoyment  of  the 
happiest  portion  of  his  life.  The  Guiccioli  was  to 
him  a  Myrrha,  but  the  Carbonari  were  around,  and 
in  the  controversy,  in  which  Sardanapalus  is  en- 
gaged, between  the  obligations  of  his  royalty  and 
his  inclinations  for  pleasure,  we  have  a  «avid  insight 
of  the  cogitation  of  the  poet,  whether  lu  take  a  part 
in  the  hazardous  activity  which  they  were  preparing, 
or  to  remain  in  the  seclusion  and  festal  repose  of 
which  he  was  then  in  possession.  The  Assyrian  is 
as  much  Lord  Byron  as  Childe  Harold  was,  and 
bears  his  lineaments  in  as  clear  a  likeness,  as  a  vo- 
luptuary unsated  could  do  those  of  the  emaciated 
victim  of  satiety.    Over  the  whole  drama,  and  espe- 

U 


..  1|! 


ill 


«fi||R|l  ~N.lllHHa«lJV 


»m, 


Wi 


r 


■yt 


i:' 


l.'i 


230 


THE   LIFE    OF 


cially  in  some  of  the  speeches  of  Sardanapalus,  a 
great  deal  cf  fine  but  irrelevant  poetry  and  moral 
reflection  has  been  profusely  spread ;  but  were  the 
piece  adapted  to  the  stage,  these  portions  would  of 
course  be  omitted,  and  the  character  denuded  of 
them  would  then  more  fully  justify  the  idea  which 
I  have  formed  of  it,  than  it  may  perhaps  to  many 
readers  do  at  present,  hidden  as  it  is,  both  in  shape 
and  contour  under  an  excess  of  ornament. 

That  the  character  of  Myrrha  was  also  drawn 
from  life,  and  that  the  Guiccioli  was  the  model,  I 
have  no  doubt.  She  had,  when  most  enchanted  by 
her  passion  for  Byron — at  the  very  time  when  tii'a 
drama  was  written — many  sources  of  regret ;  and  ne 
was  too  iveen  an  observer,  and  of  too  jealous  a  na- 
ture, not  to  have  marked  every  shade  of  change  in 
her  appearance,  and  her  every  moment  of  melan- 
choly reminiscence ;  so  that,  even  though  she  might 
never  have  given  expression  to  her  sentiments,  still 
such  was  her  situation,  that  it  could  not  but  furnish 
him  with  fit  suggestions  from  which  to  fill  up  the 
moral  being  of  the  Ionian  slave.  Were  the  charac- 
ter of  Myrrha  scanned  with  this  reference,  while 
nothing  could  be  discovered  to  detract  from  the 
value  of  the  composition,  a  great  deal  would  be 
found  to  lessen  the  merit  of  the  poet's  invention. 
He  had  with  him  the  very  being  in  person  whom  he 
has  depicted  in  the  drama,  of  dispositions  and  en- 
dowments greatly  similar,  and  in  circumstances  in 
which  she  could  not  but  feel  as  Myrrha  is  supposed 
to  have  felt : — and  it  must  be  admitted,  that  he  has 
applied  the  good  fortune  of  that  incident  to  a  beau- 
tiful purpose. 

This,  however,  is  not  all  that  the  tragedy  pos- 
sesses of  the  author.  The  character  of  Zarina  is, 
perhaps,  even  still  more  strikingly  drawn  from  life. 
There  are  many  touches  in  the  scene  with  her  which 
he  could  not  have  imagined,  without  thinking  of  his 
own  domestic  disasters.    The  first  sentiment  she 


LORD   BYRON. 


231 


palus,  a 
1  moral 
iTere  the 
^ould  of 
uded  of 
53  which 
to  many 
in  shape 

0  drawn 
model,  I 
lanted  by 
when  til  3 
t;  andne 
ous  a  na- 
5hange  in 
5f  melan- 
she  might 
lents,  still 
ut  furnish 
ill  up  the 
le  charac- 
ice,  while 
from  the 
would  be 
invention. 

1  whom  he 
IS  and  en- 
stances  in 

supposed 
at  he  has 
to  a  beau- 

[gedy  pos- 
Zarina  is, 

1  from  life- 

I  her  which 
cing  of  his 

liment  she 


£ 


utters  is  truly  conceived  in  the  very  frame  and  tem- 
per in  which  Byron  must  have  wished  his  lady  to 
think  of  himself,  and  he  could  not  imbody  it  without 
feeling  that — 

IIow  many  a  year  has  pass'd, 
Though  we  are  Btill  so  yonng,  since  we  have  met 
Which  I  have  borne  in  widowhood  or  heart. 

The  following  delicate  expression  has  reference 
to  his  having  left  his  daughter  with  her  mother,  and 
unfolds  more  of  his  secret  feelings  on  the  subject 
than  any  thing  he  has  expressed  more  ostentatiously 
elsewhere : 

I  wish'd  to  thank  you,  that  you  have  not  divided 
My  heart  flrom  all  that 's  left  it  now  to  love. 

And  what  Sardanapalus  says  of  his  children  is  not 
less  applicable  to  Byron,  and  is  true : 

Deem  not 
I  have  not  done  you  justice :  rather  make  them 
Resemble  your  own  line,  than  their  own  sire ; 
I  trust  them  with  you— to  you. 

And  when  Zarina  says, 

They  ne'er 
Shall  know  flrom  me  aught  but  what  may  honour 
Their  father's  memory, 

he  puts  in  her  mouth  only  a  sentiment  which  he 
knew,  if  his  wife  never  expressed  to  him,  she  pro- 
foundly acknowledged  in  resolution  to  herself.  The 
whole  of  this  scene  is  full  of  the  most  penetrating 
pathos;  and  did  the  drama  not  contain,  in  every 
page,  indubitable  evidence  to  me,  that  he  has  sha- 
dowed out  in  it  himself,  his  wife,  and  his  mistress, 
this  little  interview  would  prove  a  vast  deal  in  con- 
firmation of  the  opinion  so  often  expressed,  that 
where  his  genius  was  most  in  its  element,  it  was 


* 


\fW^ 


1'- 


232 


THE    LIFE    OF 


M 


U: 


when  it  doalt  with  his  own  sensibilities  and  nircum- 
stan<!es.  It  is  impossible  to  read  the  following 
speech,  without  a  conviction  that  it  was  written  at 
Lady  Byron : 

My  gentle,  wrong'd  Zarina ! 
I  am  Uie  very  slave  of  circunriHtaiico 
And  impulse— borne  away  with  every  breath  ! 
Misplaced  upon  the  throne— misplaced  in  life. 
I  know  not  what  I  could  have  been,  but  feel 
I  am  not  what  I  should  be— let  it  end. 
But  take  this  with  thee :  if  I  was  not  formed 
To  prize  a  love  like  thine— a  mind  like  thine — 
Nor  dole  even  on  thy  beauty— us  I  've  doted  ^ 

On  lesser  charms,  for  no  cause  save  that  such 
Devotion  was  a  duty,  and  I  hated 
All  that  look'd  like  a  chain  for  me  or  others 
(This  even  rebellion  must  avouch) ;  yet  hear 
These  words,  perhaps  among  my  last — that  none 
E'er  valued  more  thy  virtues,  though  he  knew  not 
To  profit  by  them. 


1, 


I 


I 


i  m  ! 


A.t  Ravenna  Cain  was  also  written;  a  dramatic 
poem,  in  some  degree,  chiefly  in  its  boldness,  resem- 
bling the  ancient  mysteries  of  the  monasteries  be- 
fore the  secular  stage  was  established.  This  per- 
formance, in  point  of  conception,  is  of  a  sublime 
order.  The  object  of  the  poem  is  to  illustrate  the 
energy  and  the  art  of  Lucifer  in  accomplishing  the 
ruin  of  the  first-born.  By  an  unfair  misconception, 
the  arguments  of  Lucifer  have  been  represented  as 
the  sentiments  of  the  author  upon  some  imaginary 
warranty  derived  from  the  exaggerated  freedom  of 
his  life ;  and  yet  the  moral  tendency  of  the  reflec- 
tions are  framed  in  a  mood  of  reverence  as  awful 
towards  Omnipotence  as  the  austere  divinity  of  Mil- 
ton. It  would  be  presumption  in  me,  however,  to 
undertake  the  defence  of  any  question  in  theology ; 
but  I  have  not  been  sensible  to  the  imputed  impiety, 
while  I  have  felt  in  many  passages  influences  that 
have  their  being  amid  the  shadows  and  twilights  of 

old  religion ;' 


<{ 


.»» 


'lis. 


ill 


ill:;. 


LORD    BYRON. 


233 


iircum- 
lowing 
tten  at 


dramatic 
s,  resem- 
eries  be- 
f  his  per- 
sublime 
trate  the 
hing  the 
iception, 
lented  as 
naginary 
iedom  of 
le  reflec- 
as  awful 
iy  of  Mil- 
vever,  to 
heology ; 
impiety, 
ices  that 
lights  of 


'*  Sttipondous  BpiritH 
That  motrk  the  pride  of  mnn,  and  people  space 
With  lit'u  and  myHtlcal  prodoniitiance." 

The  morning  hymns  and  worship  with  whicli  the 
mystery  opens  are  grave,  solemn,  and  scriptural, 
and  the  dialogue  v/hich  follows  with  Cain  is  no  less 
so:  his  opinion  of  the  tree  of  life  is,  I  believe, 
orthodox ;  but  it  is  daringly  expressed :  indeed,  all 
the  sentiments  ascribed  to  Cain  are  but  the  questions 
of  the  skeptics.  His  description  of  the  approach 
of  Lucifer  would  have  shone  in  the  Paradise  Lost. 

A  shape  like  to  the  angels, 
Yet  of  a  sterner  and  a  sadder  aspect, 
Of  spiritual  essence.    Why  do  I  quake  ? 
Wiiy  should  I  fear  him  more  than  other  spirits 
Whom  I  see  daily  wave  their  fiery  swords 
Before  the  gates  round  which  I  lingor  oO. 
In  twilight's  hour,  to  catch  a  i^limpse  of  those 
Gardens  which  are  my  just  inheritance, 
Ere  the  night  closes  o'er  the  inhibited  walls, 
And  the  immortal  trees  which  overtop 
The  cherubim-defendetl  battlements  ? 
I  shrink  not  (Vom  thest.  the  lire-arm'd  angels ; 
Why  should  I  quail  from  him  who  now  approaches  ? 
Yet  he  seems  mightier  far  than  them,  nor  less 
Beauteous ;  and  yet  not  all  as  beautiM 
As  he  hath  been,  or  might  be :  sorrow  seems 
Half  of  his  immortality. 

There  is  something  spiritually  fine  in  this  conception 
of  the  terror  or  presentiment  of  coming  evil.  The 
poet  rises  to  the  sublime  in  making  Lucifer  first 
inspire  Cain  with  the  knowledge  of  his  immortality 
— a  portion  of  truth  which  hath  the  efficacy  of  fahe- 
hood  upon  the  victim;  for  Cain,  feeling  himself 
already  unhappy,  knowing  that  his  being  cannot  be 
abridged,  has  the  less  scruple  to  desire  to  be  as 
Lucifer,  "  mighty."  The  whole  speech  of  Lucifer, 
beginning. 

Souls  who  dare  use  their  immortality, 

is  truly  satanic ;  a  daring  and  dreadful  description 
given  by  everlasting  despair  of  the  Deity. 

U2 


"T  :i 


.     ii 


234 


THE    LIFE    OF 


But,  notwithstanding  its  manifold  immeasurable 
imajrinations,  Cain  is  only  a  polemical  controversy, 
the  doctrines  of  which  might  have  been  better  dis- 
(tussed  in  the  pulpit  of  a  college  chapel.  As  a  poem 
it  is  greatly  unequal;  many  passages  consist  of 
mere  metaphysical  disquisition,  but  there  are  others 
of  wonderful  scope  and  energy.  It  is  a  thing  of 
doubts  and  dreams  and  reveries — dim  and  beautiful, 
yet  withal  full  of  terrors.  The  understanding  finds 
nothing  tangible;  but  amid  dread  and  solemnity, 
sees  only  a  shapen  darkness  with  eloquent  gestures. 
It  is  an  argument  invested  with  the  language  of  ora- 
cles and  omens,  conceived  in  some  religious  trance, 
and  addressed  to  spirits. 


(;i. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


III 

m 


m 


Removal  to  Pisa— The  Lanfranchi  Palace— Affhir  with  the  Guard  at 
Pisa— Removal  to  Monte  Nero — Junction  with  Mr.  Hunt— Mr.  Shel' 
ley's  Letter, 

The  unhappy  distrusts  and  political  jealousies  of 
the  times  obliged  Lord  Byron,  with  the  Gambas,  the 
family  of  the  Guiccioli,  to  remove  from  Ravenna  to 
Pisa.  In  this  compulsion  he  had  no  cause  to  com- 
plain ;  a  foreigner  meddling  w  ith  the  politics  of  the 
country  in  which  he  was  only  accidentally  resident, 
could  expect  no  deferential  consideration  from  the 
government.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  question 
whether  his  Lordship  was  right  or  wrong  in  his  prin- 
ciples. The  government  was  in  the  possession  of 
the  power,  and  in  self-defence  he  could  expect  no 
other  course  towards  him  than  what  he  did  expe- 
rience. He  was  admonished  to  retreat :  he  did  so. 
Could  he  have  done  otherwise,  he  would  not.    He 


■'r!? 


LORD    BYROX. 


235 


he  Guard  at 


would  have  used  the  Austrian  authority  as  ill  as  he 
was  made  to  feel  it  did  him. 

In  the  autumn  of  1821,  Lord  Byron  removed  from 
Ravenna  to  Pisa,  where  lie  hired  the  Lanfranchi 
palaee  for  a  year — one  of  those  massy  marble  piles 
which  appear 

"  So  old,  as  if  they  had  for  ever  stood— 

.  So  strong,  as  if  thoy  would  for  ever  stand  I" 

Both  in  aspect  and  cliaracter  it  was  interesting  to 
the  boding-  fancies  of  the  noble  tenant.  -  It  is  said 
to  have  been  constructed  from  a  design  of  Michael 
Angelo;  and  in  the  grandeur  of  its  features  exhi- 
bits a  bold  and  colossal  style  not  unworthy  of  his 
genius. 

The  Lanfranchi  family,  in  the  time  of  Dante,  were 
distinguished  in  the  factions  of  those  days,  and  one 
of  them  has  received  his  meed  of  immortality  from 
the  poet,  as  the  persecutor  of  Ugolino.  They  are 
now  extinct,  and  their  traditionary  reputation  is 
illustrated  by  the  popular  belief  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, that  their  ghosts  are  restless,  and  still  haunt 
tlieir  former  gloomy  and  gigantic  habitation. 

The  building  was  too  vast  for  tlie  establishment 
of  Lord  Byron,  and  he  occupied  only  the  first  floor. 

The  life  he  led  at  this  period  was  dull  and  un- 
varied. Billiards,  conversation,  reading,  and  occa- 
sionally writing,  constituted  the  regular  business  of 
the  day.  In  the  cool  of  the  afternoon,  he  sometimes 
went  out  in  his  carriage,  oftener  on  horseback,  and 
generally  amused  himself  with  pistol  practice  at  a 
five  paul  piece.  He  dined  at  half  an  hour  after  sun- 
set, and  then  drove  to  Count  Gamba's,  where  he 
passed  several  hours  with  the  Countess  Guiccioli, 
who  at  that  time  still  resided  with  her  father.  On 
his  return  he  read  or  wrote  till  the  night  was  far 
spent,  or  rather  till  the  morning  was  come  again, 
sipping  at  intervals  spirits  diluted  with  water,  as 


236 


THE    LIFE   OF 


medicine  to  counteract  some  nephritic  disorder  to 
which  he  considered  himself  liable. 

Notwithstanding  the  tranquillity  of  this  course  of 
life,  he  was  accidentally  engaged  in  a  transaction 
which  threatened  unpleasant  consequences,  and  had 
a  material  effect  on  his  comfort.  On  the  21st  of 
March,  1822,  as  he  was  returning  from  his  usual 
ride,  in  company  with  several  of  his  friends,  a  hussar 
officer,  at  full  speed,  dashed  through  the  party,  and 
violently  jostled  one  of  them.  Lord  Byron,  with 
his  characteristic  impetuosity,  instantly  pushed  for- 
wards, and  the  rest  followed,  and  overtook  the  hussar. 
His  Lordship  inquired  what  he  meant  by  the  insult ; 
but  for  answer,  received  the  grossest  abuse :  on 
which  he  and  one  of  his  companions  gave  their 
cards,  and  passed  on.  The  officer  followed,  halloo- 
ing, and  threatening  with  his  hand  on  his  sabre. 
They  were  now  near  the  Paggia  gate.  During  this 
altercation,  a  common  artilleryman  interfered,  and 
called  out  to  the  hussar,  "  Why  do  n't  you  arrest 
them  ? — command  us  to  arrest  them."  Upon  which 
the  officer  gave  the  word  to  the  guard  at  the  gate. 
His  Lordship,  hearing  the  order,  spurred  his  horse, 
and  one  of  his  party  doing  the  same,  they  succeeded 
in  forcing  their  way  through  the  soldiers,  while  the 
gate  was  closed  on  the  rest  of  the  party,  with  whom 
an  outrageous  scuffle  ensued. 

Lord  Byron,  on  reaching  his  palace,  gave  direc- 
tions to  inform  the  police,  and,  not  seeing  his  com- 
panions coming  up,  rode  back  towards  the  gate.  On 
his  way  the  hussar  met  him,  and  said,  "  Are  you 
satisfied  1"  "  No :  tell  me  your  name !"  "  Serjeant- 
major  Masi."  One  of  his  Lordship's  servants,  who 
at  this  moment  joined  them,  seized  the  hussar's  horse 
by  the  bridle,  but  his  master  commanded  him  to  let 
it  go.  The  hussar  then  spurred  his  horse  through 
the  crowd,  which  by  this  time  had  collected  in  front 
of  the  Lanfranchi  palace,  and  in  the  attempt  was 
wounded  by  a  pitchfork.    Several  of  the  servants 


siiiiiir-siii' 


LORD   BYRON. 


237 


were  arrested,  and  imprisoned :  and,  during  the  in- 
vestigation of  the  affair  be  fore  the  police,  Lord  Byron's 
house  was  surrounded  by  the  dragoons  belonging  to 
Serjeant-major  Masi's  troop,  who  threatened  to  force 
the  doors.  The  result  upon  these  particulars  was  not 
just ;  all  Lord  Byron's  Italian  servants  were  banished 
from  Pisa ;  and  with  them  the  father  and  brother  of 
the  Guiccioli,  who  had  no  concern  whatever  in  the 
affair.  Lord  Byron  himself  was  also  advised  to  quit 
the  town,  and,  as  the  Countess  accompanied  her  father, 
he  soon  after  joined  them  at  Leghorn,  and  passed  six 
weeks  at  Monte  Nero,  a  country-house  in  the  vicinity 
of  that  city. 

It  was  during  his  Lordship's  residence  at  Monte 
Nero,  that  an  event  took  place — ^his  junction  with 
Mr.  Leigh  Hunt  —which  had  some  effect  both  on  his 
literary  and  his  moral  reputation.  Previous  to  his 
departure  from  England,  there  had  been  some  inter- 
course between  them — Byron  had  been  introduced  by 
Moore  to  Hunt,  when  the  latter  was  suffering  im- 
prisonment for  the  indiscretion  of  his  pen,  and  by  his 
civility  had  encouraged  him,  perhaps,  into  some  de- 
gree of  forgetfulness  as  to  their  respective  situations 
in  society. — Mr.  Hunt  at  no  period  of  their  acquaint- 
ance appears  to  have  been  sufficiently  sensible  that 
a  man  of  positive  rank  has  it  always  in  his  power, 
without  giving  any  tiling  like  such  a  degree  of  offence 
as  may  be  resented  otherwise  than  by  estrangement, 
to  inflict  mortification,  and,  in  consequence,  presumed 
too  much  to  an  equality  with  his  Lordship — at  least 
this  is  the  impression  his  conduct  made  upon  me, 
from  the  familiarity  of  his  dedicatory  epistle  prefixed 
to  Rimini  to  their  riding  out  at  Pisa  together  dressed 
alike — "  We  had  blue  frock-coats,  white  waistcoats 
and  trousers,  and  velvet  caps,  a  la  Raphael,  and  cut 
a  gallant  figure."  I  do  not  discover  on  the  part  of 
Lord  Byron,  that  his  Lordship  ever  forgot  his  rank ; 
nor  was  he  a  personage  likely  to  do  so ;  in  saying, 
therefore,  that  Mr.  Hunt  presumed  upon  his  conde- 


■rmm 


m 


%■ 


^•■X 

\'-' 


\f 


238 


THE   LIFE    OF 


scension,  I  judge  entirely  by  his  own  statement  of 
facts.  I  am  not  undertaking  a  defence  of  his  Lord- 
ship, for  the  manner  in  which  he  acted  towards  Mr. 
Hunt,  because  it  appears  to  me  to  have  been,  in  many 
respects,  mean ;  but  I  do  think  there  was  an  original 
error,  a  misconception  of  himself  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Hunt,  that  drew  down  upon  him  a  degree  of  humilia- 
tion that  he  might,  by  more  self-respect,  have  avoided. 
However,  I  shall  endeavour  to  give  as  correct  a  sum- 
mary of  the  whole  affair  as  the  materials  before  me 
will  justify. 

The  occasion  of  Hunt's  removal  to  Italy  will  be 
best  explained  by  quoting  the  letter  from  his  friend 
Shelley,  by  which  he  was  induced  to  take  that  ob- 
viously imprudent  step. 

"Pwa,j3w5-.  26, 1821. 
"  My  dearest  friend, 

**  Since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  I  have  been  on  a  visit 
to  Lord  Byron  at  Ravenna.  The  result  of  this  visit 
was  a  determination  on  his  part  to  come  and  live  at 
Pisa,  and  I  have  taken  the  finest  palace  on  the  Lung' 
Arno  for  him.  But  the  material  part  of  my  visit  con- 
sists in  a  message  which  he  desires  me  to  give  you, 
and  which  I  think  ought  to  add  to  your  determina- 
tion— for  such  a  one  I  hope  you  have  formed — of  re- 
storing your  shattered  health  and  spirits  by  a  migra- 
tion to  these  *  regions  mild,  of  calm  and  serene  air.' 

"  He  proposes  that  you  should  come,  and  go  shares 
with  him  and  me  in  a  periodical  work  to  be  conducted 
here,  in  which  each  of  the  contracting  parties  should 
publish  all  their  original  compositions,  and  share  the 
profits.  He  proposed  it  to  Moore,  but  for  some  rea- 
son it  was  nevter  brought  to  bear.  There  can  be  no 
doubt  that  the  profits  of  any  scheme  in  which  you 
and  Lord  Byron  engage  must,  from  various  yet  co- 
operating reasons,  be  very  great.  As  to  myself,  I 
am,  for  the  present,  only  a  sort  of  link  between  you 
and  him,  until  you  can  know  each  other,  and  effec- 


LORD   BYRON. 


239 


.'•'I 


lent  of 
s  Lord- 
fds  Mr. 
n  many- 
original 
L  of  Mr. 
iiimilia- 
ivoided. 
t  a  sum- 
fore  me 

will  be 
is  friend 
thai  ob- 


1821. 

m  a  visit 
this  visit 
d  live  at 
^e  Lung' 
isit  con- 
rive  you, 
termina- 
l — of  re- 
a  migra- 
rene  air.' 
ro  shares 
onducted 
es  should 
share  the 
;ome  rea- 
;an  be  no 
hich  you 
s  yet  co- 
myself,  I 
ween  you 
md  effec 


tuate  the  arrangement ;  since  (to  intrust  you  with  a 
secret,  which  for  your  sake  I  withhold  from  Lord 
Byron)  nothing  would  induce  me  to  share  in  the 
profits,  and  still  less  in  the  borrowed  splendour  of 
such  a  partnership.  You  and  he,  in  different  man- 
ners, would  be  equal,  and  would  bring  in  a  different 
manner,  but  in  the  same  proportion,  equal  stocks  of 
reput^ition  and  success.  Do  not  let  my  frankness 
with  you,  nor  my  belief  that  you  deserve  it  more  than 
Lord  Byron,  have  the  effect  of  deterring  you  from 
assuming  a  station  in  modern  literature,  which  the 
universal  voice  of  my  contemporaries  forbids  me 
either  to  stoop  or  aspire  to.  I  am,  and  I  desire  to  be, 
nothing. 

"  I  did  not  ask  Lord  Byron  to  assist  me  in  sending 
a  remittance  for  your  journey ;  because  there  are 
men,  however  excc?^ont,  from  whom  we  would  never 
receive  anobligatioTj  -  ;>e  worldly  sense  of  the  word; 
and  I  am  as  jealous  r  ly  friend  as  for  myself.  I, 
as  you  know,  have  ii  not ;  but  I  suppose  that  at  last 
I  shall  make  up  an  impudent  face,  and  ask  Horace 
Smith  to  add  to  the  many  ot ligations  he  has  con- 
ferred on  me.    I  know  I  need  only  ask." 

*    «    * 

Now,  before  proceeding  farther,  it  seems  from  this 
epistle,  and  there  is  no  reason  to  question  Shelley's 
veracity,  that  Lord  Byron  was  the  projector  of  the 
Liberal ;  that  Hunt's  political  notoriety  was  mistaken 
for  literary  reputation,  and  that  there  was  a  sad  lack 
of  common  sense  in  the  whole  scheme. 


.j 


•ifwr- 


f* 


240 


THE   LIFE    OF 


^ 


f 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Mr.  Hunt  arrives  in  Italy— Meeting  with  Lord  Byron— Tumults  in  the 
House — Arrangements  for  Mr.  Hunt's  Family — Extent  of  his  Obli- 
gatio7iit  to  Lord  Byron — Their  Copartnery — Meanness  of  the  whole 
Business. 

On  receiving  Mr.  Shelley's  letter,  Mr.  Hunt  pre- 
pared to  avail  himself  of  the  invitation ;  which  he 
was  the  more  easily  enabled  to  do,  as  his  friend,  not- 
withstanding what  he  had  intimated,  borrowed  two 
hundred  pounds  from  Lord  Byron,  and  remitted  to 
him.  He  reached  Leghorn  soon  after  his  Lordship 
had  taken  up  his  temporary  residence  at  Monte  Nero. 

The  meeting  with  his  Lordship  was  in  so  many  re- 
spects remarkable,  that  the  details  of  it  cannot  well 
be  omitted.  The  day  was  very  hot ;  and  when  Hunt 
reached  the  house  he  found  the  hottest-looking  ha- 
bitation he  had  ever  seen.  Not  content  with  having  a 
red  wash  over  it,  the  red  was  the  most  unseasonable 
of  all  reds — a  salmon-colour ;  but  the  greatest  of  all 
heats  was  within. 

Lord  B5rron  was  grown  so  fat  that  he  scarcely 
knew  him;  and  was  dressed  in  a  loose  nankeen 
jacket  and  white  trousers,  his  neckcloth  open,  and 
his  hair  in  thin  ringlets  about  his  throat ;  altogether 
presenting  a  very  different  aspect  from  the  compact, 
energetic,  and  curly-headed  person  whom  Hunt  had 
known  in  England. 

His  Lordship  took  the  stranger  into  an  inner  room, 
and  introduced  him  to  a  young  lady  who  was  in  a 
state  of  great  agitation.  This  was  the  Guiccioli; 
presently  her  brother  also,  in  great  agitation,  en- 
tered, having  his  arm  in  a  sling.  This  scene  and 
confusion  had  arisen  from  a  quarrel  among  the  ser- 
vants, in  which  the  young  Count,  having  interfered. 


LORD   BYRON. 


241 


ilts  in  the 
fhis  Obli- 
'the  whole 


mt  pre- 
iiich  he 
nd,  not- 
ved  two 
itted  to 
iOrdship 
te  Nero, 
nany  re- 
not  well 
en  Hunt 
ung  ha- 
having  a 
isonable 
ist  of  all 

scarcely 
nankeen 
Den,  and 
ogether 
ompact, 
unt  had 

er  room, 
^as  in  a 
uiccioli ; 
ion,  en- 
ene  and 
the  ser- 
erfered, 


had  been  stabbed.  He  was  very  angry,  the  Countess 
was  more  so,  and  would  not  listen  to  the  comments  of 
Lord  Byron,  who  was  for  making  light  of  the  matter. 
Indeed,  it  looked  somewhat  serious,  for  though  the 
stab  was  not  much,  the  inflictor  threatened  more,  and 
was  at  that  time  revengefully  keeping  watch,  with 
knotted  brows,  under  the  portico,  with  the  avowed 
intention  of  assaulting  the  first  person  who  issued 
forth.  He  was  a  sinister-looking,  meager  caitiff,  with 
a  red  cap — gaunt,  ugly,  and  unshaven ;  his  appear- 
ance altogether  more  squalid  and  miserable  than 
Englishmen  would  conceive  it  possible  to  find  in 
such  an  establishment.  An  end,  however,  was  put 
to  the  tragedy  by  the  fellow  throwing  himself  on  a 
bench,  and  bursting  into  tears — wailing  and  asking 
pardon  for  his  offence,  and  perfecting  his  penitence 
by  requesting  Lord  Byron  to  kiss  him  in  token  of  for- 
giveness. In  the  end,  how^ever,  he  was  dismissed ; 
and  it  being  arranged  that  Mr.  Hunt  should  move  his 
family  to  apartments  in  the  Lanfranchi  palace  at 
Pisa,  that  gentleman  returned  to  Leghorn. 

The  accoimt  which  Mr.  Hunt  has  given,  in  his  me- 
moir of  Lord  Byron,  is  evidently  written  under  of- 
fended feeling ;  and,  in  consequence,  though  he  does 
not  appear  to  have  been  much  indebted  to  the  muni- 
ficence of  his  Lordship,  the  tendency  is  to  make  his 
readers  sensible  that  he  was,  if  not  ill  used,  disap- 
pointed. The  Casa  Lanfranchi  was  a  huge  and 
gaunt  building,  capable,  without  inconvenience  or  in- 
termixture, of  accommodating  several  families.  It 
was,  therefore,  not  a  great  favour  in  his  Lordship, 
considering  that  he  had  invited  Mr.  Hunt  from  Eng- 
land, to  become  a  partner  with  him  in  a  speculation 
purely  commercial,  to  permit  him  to  occupy  tlio 
ground-floor  or  flat,  as  it  would  be  called  in  Scot- 
land. The  apartments  being  empty,  furniture  was 
necessary,  and  the  plainest  was  provided ;  good  of 
its  kind  and  respectable,  it  yet  could  not  have  cost  a 
great  deal.     It  was  chosen  by  Mr.  Shelley,  who 

X 


i-d  'U 


242 


THE   LIFE   OF 


'  h        ■'  '1, 


intended  to  make  a  present  of  it  to  Mr.  Hunt ;  but 
when  the  apartments  were  fitted  up,  Lord  Byron 
insisted  upon  paying  the  account,  and  to  that  ex- 
tent Mr.  Hunt  incurred  a  pecuniary  obligation  to  his 
Lordship.  The  two  hundred  pounds  already  men- 
tioned was  a  debt  to  Mr.  Shelley,  who  borrowed  the 
money  from  Lord  Byron. 

Soon  after  Mr.  Hunt's  family  were  settled  in  their 
new  lodgings,  Shelley  returned  to  Leghorn,  with  the 
intention  of  taking  a  sea-excursion — in  the  course  of 
which  he  was  lost :  Lord  Byron  knowing  how  much 
Hunt  was  dependent  on  that  gentleman,  immediately 
offered  him  the  command  of  his  purse,  and  requested 
to  be  considered  as  standirg  in  the  place  of  Shelley, 
his  particular  friend.  This  was  both  gentlemanly 
and  generous,  and  the  offer  was  accepted,  but  with 
feelings  neither  just  nor  gracious :  "  Stem  necessity 
and  a  large  family  compelled  me,"  says  Mr.  Hunt, 
"  and  during  our  residence  at  Pisa  I  had  from  him, 
or  rather  from  his  steward,  to  whom  he  always  sent 
me  for  the  money,  and  who  doled  it  out  to  me  as  if 
my  disgraces  were  being  counted,  the  sum  of  seventy 
pounds." 

"  This  sum,"  he  adds, "  together  with  the  pay* 
ment  of  our  expenses  when  we  accompanied  him 
from  Pisa  to  Genoa,  and  thirty  pounds  with  which 
he  enabled  us  subsequently  to  go  from  Genoa  to 
Florence,  was  all  the  money  I  ever  received  from 
Lord  Byron,  exclusive  of  the  two  hundred  pounds, 
which,  in  the  first  instance,  he  made  a  debt  of  Mr. 
Shelley,  by  taking  his  bond." — The  whole  extent  of 
the  pecuniary  obligation  appears  not  certainly  to  have 
exceeded  five  hundred  pounds ;  no  great  sum — but 
little  or  great,  the  manner  in  which  it  was  recollected 
reflects  no  credit  either  on  the  head  or  heart  of  the 
debtor. 

Mr.  Hunt,  in  extenuation  of  the  bitterness  with 
which  he  has  spoken  on  the  subject,  says,  that "  Lord 
Byron  made  no  scruple  of  talking  very  freely  of  mc 


1 


LORD   BYRON. 


243 


int;  btft 
I  Byron 
hat  ex- 
>n  to  his 
dy  men- 
wed  the 

in  their 
with  the 
ourseof 
iw  mirch 
iediat€ly 
squested 
Shelley, 
tlemanly 
but  with 
lecessity 
[r.  Hunt, 
rom  him, 
ays  sent 
me  as  if 
'  seventy 

the  pay* 
lied  him 
th  which 
Jenoa  to 
red  from 
pounds, 
3t  of  Mr. 
extent  of 
y  to  have 
sum — but 
collected 
,rt  of  the 

less  with 
lat "  Lord 
3ly  of  mc 


and  mine."  It  may,  therefore,  be  possible,  that  Mr. 
Hunt  had  cause  for  his  resentment,  and  to  feel  the 
humiliation  of  being  under  obligations  to  a  mean 
man ;  at  the  same  time  Lord  Byron,  on  his  side,  may 
upon  experience  have  found  equal  reason  to  repent 
of  his  connexion  with  Mr.  Hunt.  And  it  is  certain 
that  each  has  sought  to  justify,  both  to  himself  and 
to  the  world,  the  rupture  of  a  copartnery  which  ought 
never  to  have  been  formed.  But  his  Lordship's  con- 
duct is  the  least  justifiable.  He  had  allured  Hunt  to 
Italy  with  flattering  hopes ;  he  had  a  perfect  know- 
ledge of  his  hampered  circumstances,  and  he  was 
thoroughly  aware  that,  until  their  speculation  be- 
came productive,  he  must  support  him.  To  the  ex- 
tent of  about  five  hundred  pounds  he  did  so :  a  trifle, 
considering  the  glittering  anticipations  of  their 
scheme. 

Viewing  their  copartnery,  however,  as  a  mere 
commercial  speculation,  his  Lordship's  advance  could 
not  be  regarded  as  liberal,  and  no  modification  of  the 
term  munificence  or  patronage  could  be  applied  to  it. 
But,  unless  he  had  harassed  Hunt  for  the  repay- 
ment of  the  money,  which  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  the  case,  nor  could  he  morally,  perhaps  even 
legally,  have  done  so,  that  gentleman  had  no  cause 
to  complain.  The  joint  adventure  was  a  failure,  and 
except  a  little  repining  on  the  part  of  the  one  for  the 
loss  of  his  advance,  and  of  grudging  on  that  of  the 
other  for  the  waste  of  his  time,  no  sharper  feeling 
ought  to  have  arisen  between  them.  But  vanity  was 
mingled  with  their  golden  dreams.  Lord  Byron  mis- 
took Hunt's  political  notoriety  for  literary  reputation, 
and  Mr.  Hunt  thought  it  was  a  fine  thing  to  be 
chum  and  partner  with  so  renowned  a  lord.  After 
all,  however,  the  worst  which  can  be  said  of  it  is, 
that  formed  in  weakness  it  could  produce  only  vex- 
ation. 
But  the  dissolution  of  the  vapour  with  which  both 

arties  were  so  intoxicated,  and  which  led  to  their 


M. 


244 


THE   LIFE    OF 


'I 


\\": 


Ai"' 


quarrel,  might  have  occasioned  only  amusement  to 
the  world,  had  it  not  left  an  ignoble  stigma  on  the 
character  of  Lord  Byron,  and  given  cause  to  every 
admirer  of  his  genius  to  deplore,  that  he  should 
have  so  forgotten  his  dignity  and  fame. 

There  is  no  disputing  the  fact,  that  his  Lordship, 
in  conceiving  the  plan  of  The. Liberal,  was  actuated 
by  sordid  motives,  and  of  the  basest  kind,  inasmuch 
as  it  was  intended  that  the  popularity  of  the  work 
should  rest  upon  satire  ;  or,  in  other  words,  on  the 
ability  to  be  displayed  by  it  in  the  art  of  detraction. 
Being  disappointed  in  his  hopes  of  profit,  he  shuf- 
fled out  of  the  concern  as  meanly  as  any  higgler 
could  have  done  who  had  found  himself  in  a  profit- 
less business  with  a  disreputable  partner.  There  is 
no  disguising  this  unvarnished  truth ;  and  though  his 
friends  did  well  in  getting  the  connexion  ended  as 
quickly  as  possible,  they  could  not  eradicate  the 
original  sin  of  the  transaction,  nor  extinguish  the 
consequences  which  it  of  necessity  entailed.  Let 
me  not,  however,  be  misunderstood :  my  objection 
to  the  conduct  of  Byron  does  not  lie  against  the 
wish  to  turn  his  extraordinary  talents  to  profitable 
account,  but  to  the  mode  in  which  he  proposed  to,  and 
did,  employ  them.  Whether  Mr.  Hunt  was  or  was 
not  a  fit  copartner  for  one  of  his  Lordship's  rank 
and  celebrity,  I  do  not  undertake  to  judge ;  but  any 
individual  was  good  enough  for  that  vile  prostitution 
of  his  genius,  to  which,  in  an  unguarded  hour,  he 
submitted  for  money.  Indeed,  it  would  be  doing 
injustice  to  compare  the  motives  of  Mr.  Hunt  in  the 
business  with  those  by  which  Lord  Byron  was  in- 
fatuated. He  put  nothing  to  hazard ;  happen  what 
might,  he  could  not  be  otherwise  than  a  gainer ;  for 
if  profit  failed,  it  could  not  be  denied  that  the  "  fore- 
most" poet  of  all  the  age  had  discerned  in  him  either 
the  promise  or  the  existence  of  merit,  which  he 
was  desirous  of  associating  with  his  own.  This 
advantage  Mr.  Hunt  did  gain  by  the  connexion ;  and 


LORD   BYRON. 


245 


ment  to 
on  the 

;o  every 
should 

ordship, 
ictuated 
lasmuch 
he  work 
I,  on  the 
traction, 
he  shuf- 
r  higgler 
a  profit- 
There  is 
ioughhis 
ended  as 
icate  the 
;uish  the 
!ed.    Let 
objection 
ainst  the 
profitable 
3d  to,  and 
s  or  was 
ip's  rank 
but  any 
)stitution 
hour,  he 
}e  doing 
mt  in  the 
was  in- 
pen  what 
ner;  for 
le  "  fore- 
lim  either 
vhich  he 
n.    This 
ion;  and 


it  is  his  own  fault  that  he  cannot  be  recollected  as 
the  associate  of  Byron,  but  only  as  having  attempted 
to  deface  his  monument. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Mr.  Shelley— Sketch  of  his  Life — His  Dea  'h—The  Burning  of  his  Body, 
and  the  tCeturn  of  the  Mourners. 

It  has  been  my  study  in  writing  these  sketches  to 
introduce  as  few  names  as  the  nature  of  the  work 
would  admit  of ;  but  Lord  Byron  connected  himself 
with  persons  who  had  claims  to  public  consideration 
on  account  of  their  talents ;  and,  without  affecta- 
tion, it  is  not  easy  to  avoid  taking  notice  of  his  inti- 
macy with  some  of  them,  especially,  if  in  the  course 
of  it  any  cir  jumstance  came  to  pass  which  was  in 
itself  remarkable,  or  likely  to  have  produced  an  im- 
pression on  his  Lordship's  mind.  His  friendship 
with  Mr.  Shelley,  mentioned  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter, was  an  instance  of  this  kind. 

That  unfortunate  gentleman  was  undoubtedly  a 
man  of  genius — full  of  ideal  beauty  and  enthusiasm. 
And  yet  there  was  some  defect  in  his  understanding 
by  which  he  subjected  himself  to  the  accusation  of 
atheism.  In  his  dispositions  he  is  represented  to 
have  been  ever  calm  and  amiable ;  and  but  for  his 
metaphysical  errors  and  reveries,  and  a  singular  in- 
capability of  conceiving  the  existing  state  of  things 
as  it  practically  affects  the  nature  and  condition  of 
nian,  to  have  possessed  many  of  the  gentlest  qualities 
of  humanity.  He  highly  admired  the  endowments 
of  Lord  Byron,  and  in  return  was  esteemed  by  his 
Lordship ;  but  even  had  there  been  neither  sympathy 
nor  friendship  between  them,  his  premature  fate 

X2 


■II 


!'-ln|.^-      ., 


i 


246 


THE   LIFE    OF 


,f^ 


^ 


;. ! 


could  not  but  have  saddened  Byron  with  no  common 
sorrow. 

Mr.  Shelley  was  some  years  younger  than  his 
noble  friend ;  he  was  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  Timothy 
Shelley,  Bart.,  of  Castle  Goring,  Sussex.  At  the 
age  of  thirteen  he  was  sent  to  Eton,  where  he  rarely 
mixed  in  the  common  amusements  of  the  other  boys; 
but  was  of  a  shy,  reserved  disposition,  fond  of  soli- 
tude, and  made  few  friends.  He  was  not  distin- 
guished for  his  proficiency  in  the  regular  studies  of 
the  school ;  on  the  contrary,  he  neglectcjd  them  for 
German  and  Chemistry.  His  abilities  were  superior, 
but  deteriorated  by  eccentricity.  At  the  age  of  six- 
teen he  was  sent  to  the  University  of  Oxford,  where 
he  soon  distinguished  himself  by  publishing  a  pam- 
phlet, under  the  absurd  and  world-defying  title  of 
The  Necessity  of  Atheism ;  for  which  he  was  ex- 
pelled the  University. 

The  event  proved  fatal  to  his  prospects  in  life ; 
and  the  treatment  he  received  from  his  family  was 
too  harsh  to  win  him  from  error.  His  father,  how- 
ever, in  a  short  time  relented,  and  he  was  received 
home ;  but  he  took  so  little  trouble  to  conciliate  the 
esteem  of  his  friends,  that  he  found  the  house  un- 
comfortable, and  left  it.  He  then  went  to  London ; 
where  he  eloped  with  a  young  lady  to  Gretna-green. 
Their  united  ages  amounted  to  thirty-two ;  ana  the 
match  being  deemed  unsuitable  to  his  rank  and 
prospects,  it  so  exasperated  his  father,  that  he  broke 
off  all  communication  with  him. 

After  their  marriage  the  young  couple  resided 
some  time  in  Edinburgh.  They  then  passed  over  to 
Ireland,  which  being  in  a  state  of  disturbance,  Shel- 
ley took  a  part  in  politics,  more  reasonable  than 
might  have  been  expected.  He  inculcated  modera- 
tion. 

About  this  time  he  became  devoted  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  his  poetical  talents ;  but  his  works  were  sul- 
lied with  the  erroneous  inductions  of  an  under- 


■  i  I" 


it  ■  m 


LORD   BYRON. 


247 


standing  which,  inasmuch  as  ho  regarded  all  the 
existinff  world  in  the  wrong,  must  be  considered  as 
having  l)een  either  shattered  or  defective. 

His  rash  marriage  proved,  of  course,  an  unhappy 
one.  After  the  birth  of  two  children,  a  separation, 
by  mutual  consent,  took  place,  and  Mrs.  Shelley 
committed  suicide. 

He  then  married  a  daughter  of  Mr.  Godwin,  the 
author  of  Caleb  Williams,  and  thoy  resided  for  some 
time  at  Great  Marlow,  in  Buckinghamshire,  much 
respected  for  their  charity.  In  the  mean  time,  his 
irreligious  opinions  had  attracted  public  notice,  and, 
in  consequence  of  his  unsatisfactory  notions  of  the 
Deity,  his  children,  probably  at  the  instance  of  his 
father,  were  taken  from  him  by  a  decree  of  the  Lord 
Chancellor:  an  event  which,  with  increasing  pecu- 
niary embarrassments,  induced  him  to  quit  England, 
with  the  intention  of  never  returning. 

Being  in  Switzerland  when  Lord  Byron,  after  his 
domestic  tribulations,  arrived  at  Geneva,  they  became 
acquainted.  He  then  crossed  the  Alps,  and  again 
at  Venice  renewed  his  friendship  with  his  Lordship, 
he  thence  passed  to  Rome,  where  he  resided  some 
time ;  and  after  visiting  Naples,  fixed  his  permanent 
residence  in  Tuscany.  His  acquirements  were  con- 
stantly augmenting,  and  he  was  without  question 
an  accomplished  person.  He  was,  however,  more 
of  a  metaphysician  than  a  poet,  though  there  are 
splendid  specimens  of  poetical  thought  in  his  works. 
As  a  man,  he  was  objected  to  only  on  account  of 
his  speculative  opinions;  for  he  possessed  many 
amiable  qualities,  was  just  in  his  intentions,  and 
generous  to  excess. 

When  he  had  seen  Mr.  Hunt  established  in  the 
Casa  Lanfranchi  with  Lord  Byron  at  Pisa,  Mr.  Shel- 
ley returned  to  Leghorn,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  a 
sea  excursion;  an  amusement  to  which  he  was 
mu«  h  attached.  During  a  violent  storm  the  boat 
was  swamped,  and  the  party  on  board  were  all 


'   Mil 


\ 


'* 


248 


THE   LIFE    OF 


drowned.  Their  bodies  were,  however,  afterward 
cast  on  shore;  Mr.  Shelley's  was  found  near  Via 
Reggio,  and,  being  greatly  decomposed,  and  unfit  to 
be  removed,  it  was  determined  to  reduce  the  remains 
to  ashes,  that  they  might  be  carried  to  a  place  of 
sepulture.  Accordingly  preparations  were  made  for 
the  burning. 

Wood  in  abundance  was  found  on  the  shore,  con- 
sisting of  old  trees  and  the  wreck  of  vessels :  the 
spot  itself  was  well  suited  for  the  ceremony.  The 
magnificent  bay  of  Spezia  was  on  the  right,  and 
Leghorn  on  the  left,  at  equal  distances  of  about 
two-and-twenty  milfes.  The  headlands  project  boldly 
far  into  the  sea ;  in  front  lie  several  islands,  and  be- 
hind dark  forests  and  the  cliffy  Apennines.  Nothing 
was  omitted  that  could  exalt  and  dignify  the  mourn- 
ful rites  with  the  associations  of  classic  antiquity : 
frankincense  and  wine  were  not  forgotten.  The 
weather  was  serene  and  beautiful,  and  the  pacified 
ocean  was  silent,  as  the  flame  rose  with  extraordi- 
nary brightness.  Lord  Byron  was  present ;  but  he 
should  himself  have  described  the  sceiie,  and  what 
he  felt. 

These  antique  obsequies  were  undoubtedly  affect- 
ing ;  but  the  return  of  the  mourners  from  the  burn- 
ing is  the  most  appalling  orgia,  without  the  horror 
of  crime,  of  which  I  have  ever  heard.  When  the 
duty  was  done,  and  the  ashes  collected,  they  dined 
and  drank  much  together,  and  bursting  from  the 
calm  mastery  with  which  they  had  repressed  their 
feelings  during  the  solemnity,  gave  way  to  frantic 
exultation.  They  were  all  drunk ;  they  sang,  they 
shouted,  and  their  barouche  was  driven  like  a  whirl- 
wind through  the  forest.  I  can  conceive  nothing 
descriptive  of  the  demoniac  revelry  of  that  flight, 
but  scraps  of  the  dead  man's  own  song  of  Faust, 
Mephistophiles,  and  Ignis  Fatuus,  in  alternate  chorus. 

The  limit  9  of  the  sphere  of  dream, 
TbA  bounds  of  true  and  false  are  past ; 


LOttD    BYRON. 

Lead  uh  on  thou  wand'ring  Gleam ; 

Lead  us  onwarilN,  Ibr  and  fbst, 
To  the  wide,  the  desert  wuMto. 

But  Nee  how  Bwifl,  advance  and  HhiA, 

Trees  behind  trees— row  by  row, 
No^v  cUJl  by  cllll,  rocks  bend  and  lift, 

Their  frowning  lbrch«!ads  as  wo  go ; 
The  giant-snouted  cra^s,  hn  I  iio  I 

How  they  snort,  and  how  they  blow. 

Honour  her  to  whom  honour  is  due, 
Old  mother  Baubo,  honour  to  you. 
An  iibU'  sow  with  old  Hiiubo  upon  her 
Is  worthy  of  glory  and  worthy  of  honour. 

The  way  is  wide,  the  way  is  long 

But  what  is  tlmt  for  a  Bedlam  throng  T 

Some  on  a  rain,  and  some  on  a  prong, 

On  poles  and  ou  broomsti<'k««  wn  flutter  along. 

Every  trough  will  be  boat  enough, 

With  a  rag  for  a  sail,  we  can  sweep  through  the  sky, 

Who  tlies  not  to-nigtit,  when  means  he  to  fly  ? 


CHAPTER  XL. 


The  Two  Foscari— Werner— The  Deformed  Transformed— Don  Juan— 
The  Liberal— Removes  from  Pisa  to  Genoa. 

I  HAVE  never  heard  exactly  where  the  tragedy  of 
The  Two  Foscari  was  written ;  that  it  was  imagined 
in  Venice  is  probable.  The  subject  is,  perhaps,  not 
very  fit  for  a  drama,  for  it  has  no  action ;  but  it  is 
rich  in  tragic  materials,  revenge  and  affection,  and 
the  composition  is  full  of  the  peculiar  stuff  of  the 
poet's  own  mind.  The  exulting  sadness  with  w^iieh 
Jacopo  Foscari  looks  in  the  first  scene  from  the 
window,  on  the  Adriatic,  is  Byron  himself  recalling 
his  enjoyment  of  the  sea. 

How  many  a  time  have  I 
Cloven  with  arm  still  lustier,  heart  more  daring. 
The  wave  all  roughen'd ;  with  a  swimmer's  stroke 


H 

^r 


% 


s 


250  THE   LIFE   OF 

Flinging  the  billows  back  flrom  my  draneh'd  hatr. 
And  laughing  from  my  lip  th'  audacious  brine 
Which  uss'd  it  like  a  wine-cup. 

The  whole  passage,  both  prelude  and  remainder, 
glows  with  the  delicious  recollections  of  laving  and 
revelling  in  the  summer  waves.  But  the  exile's 
feeling  is  no  less  beautifully  given  and  appropriate 
to  the  author's  condition,  far  more  so,  indeed,  than 
to  that  of  Jacopo  Foscari* 

Had  I  gone  forth 
From  my  own  land,  like  the  old  patriarchs,  seeking 
Another  region  with  their  flocks  and  herds ; 
Had  I  been  cast  out  like  the  Jews  ft-om  Zion, 
Or  like  our  fathers  driven  by  Attila 
From  fertile  Italy  to  barren  islets, 
I  would  have  given  some  tears  to  my  late  country, 
And  m^ny  thoughts ;  but  afterward  address'd 
Myself  to  those  about  me,  to  create 
A  new  home  and  first  state. 

What  follows  is  still  more  pathetic : 

Ay— we  but  hear 
Of  the  surrivors'  toil  in  their  new  lands, 
Their  numbers  and  success ;  but  who  can  number 
The  hearts  which  broke  in  silence  of  that  parting, 
Or  after  their  departure ;  of  that  malady'" 
Which  calls  up  green  and  native  fields  to  view 
From  the  rough  deep  with  such  identity 
To  the  poor  exile's  fevered  eye,  that  he 
Can  scarcely  be  restrained  fVom  treading  them? 
Tliat  melodyt  which  out  of  tones  and  tunes 
Collects  such  pastime  for  the  ling'ring  sorrow 
Of  the  sad  mountaineer,  when  Ihr  away 
From  his  snow-canopy  of  cliffs  and  clouds, 
That  he  fbeds  on  the  sweet  but  poisonous  thought 
And  dies. — You  call  this  weakness !    It  is  strength, 
I  say— the  parent  of  all  honest  feeling : 
He  who  loves  not  his  country  can  love  nothing, 

MARINA. 

Obey  her  then, 't  is  she  that  puts  thee  fbrth. 

JACOPO  FOSCARI. 

Ay,  there  it  is.    T  is  like  a  mother's  curse' 
Upon  my  soul— the  mark  is  set  upon  me. 


*  The  calenture. 


\  The  Swiss  air. 


1  (!> 

t,         2* 


LORD   BYRON. 

The  exiles  you  speak  of  went  forth  by  nations ; 
Their  hands  uplield  each  other  by  the  way ; 
Tlieir  tents  were  pitchM  together— I  ^in  aloue— 

Ah,  you  never  yet 
Were  fer  away  ftam  Venice — never  saw 
Her  beauti  All  towers  in  the  receding  distance, 
While  every  ftirrow  of  the  vessel's  tr^ck 
Seem'd  ploughing  deep  into  your  heart ;  you  never 
baw  day  go  down  upon  your  native  spires 
So  calmly  with  its  gold  and  crimson  glory, 
And  after  dreaming  a  distu  rbed  vision 
Of  them  and  theirs,  awoke  and  found  them  not. 


251 


M 


All  this  speaks  of  the  voluntary  exile's  own  re- 
grets, and  awakens  sympathy  for  the  anguish  which 
pride  concealed,  but  unable  to  repress,  gave  vent  to 
in  the  imagined  sufferings  of  one  that  was  to  him 
as  Hecuba. 

It  was  at  Pisa  that  Werner,  or  the  Inheritance,  a 
tragedy,  was  written,  or  at  least  completo-l.  It  is 
taken  entirely  from  the  German's  tale,  Kruitzner, 
published  many  years  before,  by  one  of  the  Miss 
Lees,  in  their  Canterbury  Tales.  So  far  back  as 
1815,  Byron  began  a  drama  upon  the  same  subject, 
and  nearly  completed  an  act  when  he  was  inter- 
rupted. **  I  have  adopted,"  he  says  himself,  "  the 
characters,  plan,  and  even  the  language  of  many 
parts  of  this  story;"  an  acknowledgment  which 
exempts  it  from  that  kind  of  criticism  to  which  his 
principal  works  are  herein  subjected. 

But  The  Deformed  Transformed,  which  was  also 
written  at  Pisa,  is,  though  confessedly  an  imitation 
of  Goethe's  Faust,  substantially  an  original  work- 
in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Moore,  it  probably  owes  some- 
thing to  the  author's  painful  sensibiJity  to  the  defect 
in  his  own  foot ;  an  accident  which  must,  from  the 
acuteness  with  which  he  felt  it,  have  essentially  con- 
tributed to  enable  him  to  comprehend  and  to  express 
the  envy  of  those  afflicted  with  irremediable  excep- 
tions to  the  ordinary  course  of  fortune,  or  who  have 
been  amerced  by  nature  of  their  fair  proportions. 
But  save  only  a  part  of  the  first  scene^  the  sketch 


252 


THE   LIFE   OF 


v/i- 


will  not  rank  among  the  felicitous  works  of  the  poet. 
It  was  intended  to  be  a  satire— probably,  at  least — 
but  it  is  only  a  fragment — a  failure. 

Hitherto  I  have  not  noticed  Don  Juan  otherwise 
than  incidentally.  It  was  commenced  in  Venice, 
and  afterward  continued  at  intervals  to  the  end  of 
the  sixteenth  canto,  until  the  author  left  Pisa,  when 
it  was  not  resumed,  at  least  no  more  has  been  pub- 
lished. Strong  objections  have  been  made  to  its 
moral  tendency;  but,  in  the  opinion  of  many,  it  is 
the  poet's  masterpiece,  and  undoubtedly  it  displays 
all  the  variety  of  his  powers,  combined  with  a  quaint 
playfulness  not  found  to  an  equal  degree  in  any  other 
of  his  works.  The  serious  and  pathetic  portions 
are  exquisitely  beautiful ;  the  descriptive  have  all  the 
distinctness  of  the  best  pictures  in  Childe  Harold, 
and  are,  moreover,  generally  drawn  from  nature, 
while  the  satire  is  for  the  most  part  curiously  asso- 
ciated and  sparklingly  witty.  The  characters  are 
sketched  with  amazing  firmness  and  freedom,  and 
though  sometimes  grotesque,  are  yet  not  often  over- 
charged. It  is  professedly  an  epic  poem,  but  it  may 
be  more  properly  described  as  a  poetical  novel. 
Nor  can  it  be  said  to  inculcate  any  particular  moral, 
or  to  do  more  than  unmantle  the  decorum  of  society. 
Bold  and  buoyant  throughout,  it  exhibits  a  free  irre- 
verent knowledge  of  the  world,  laughing  or  mock- 
ing as  the  thought  serves,  in  the  most  unexpected 
antitheses  to  the  proprieties  of  time,  place,  and  cir- 
cumstance. 

The  object  of  the  poem  is  to  describe  the  progi^ess 
of  a  libertine  through  life,  not  an  ui'principled  pro- 
digal, whose  profligacy,  growing  Wi  n  his  growth, 
and  strengthening  with  his  strength,  passes  from 
voluptuous  indulgence  into  the  sordid  sensuality  of 
systematic  debauchery, but  a  young  gentleman, who, 
whirled  by  the  vigour  and  vivacity  of  his  animal 
spirits  into  a  world  of  adventures,  in  which  his  stars 
are  chiefly  in  fault  for  his  liaisons,  settles  at  last  into 


IK  '   '^ 


LORD   BYRON. 


253 


an  honourable  lawgiver,  a  moral  speaker  on  divorce 
bills,  and  possibly  a  subscriber  to  the  Society  for  the 
Suppression  of  Vice.  The  author  has  not  com- 
pleted his  design,  but  such  appears  to  have  been  the 
drift  of  it,  affording  ample  opportunities  to  unveil 
the  foibles  and  follies  of  all  sorts  of  men — and 
women  too.  It  is  generally  supposed  to  contain 
much  of  the  author's  own  experience,  but  still,  with 
all  its  riant  knowledge  of  bowers  and  boudoirs,  it  is 
deficient  as  a  true  limning  of  the  world,  by  showing 
man  as  if  he  were  always  ruled  by  one  predominant 
appetite. 

In  the  character  of  Donna  Inez  and  Don  Jose,  it 
has  been  imaarined  that  Lord  Byron  has  sketched 
himself  and  his  lady.  It  may  be  so ;  and  if  it  were, 
he  had  by  that  time  got  pretty  well  over  the  lachry- 
mation  of  their  parting.  It  is  no  longer  doubtful 
that  the  twenty-seventh  stanza  records  a  biographi- 
cal fact,  and  the  thirty-sixth  his  own  feelings; 
when, 

Poor  fellow !  he  had  many  things  to  wound  hiiti^ 
Let  *a  own,  since  it  can  do  no  good  on  earth ; 
It  was  a  trying  moment  that  which  found  liim 
Standing  alone  beside  his  desolate  hearth, 
Where  all  his  household  gods  lay  shiver'd  round  liim : 
No  choice  was  left  his  feelings  or  his  pride, 
Save  death  or  Doctors'  Commons^ 


■  ■   :  ;  I 


It  has  been  already  mentioned,  that  while  the  poet 
was  at  Dr.  Glennie's  academy  at  Dulwich,  he  read 
an  account  of  a  shipwreck,  which  has  been  supposed 
to  have  furnished  some  of  the  most  striking  inci- 
dents in  the  description  of  the  disastrous  voyage  in 
the  second  canto  in  Don  Juan.  I  have  not  seen  that 
work ;  but  whatever  Lord  Byron  may  have  found  in 
it  suitable  to  his  purpose,  he  has  undoubtedly  made 
good  use  of  his  grandfather's  adventures.  The  in- 
cident of  the  spaniel  is  related  by  the  admiral. 

In  the  license  of  Don  Juan,  the  author  seems  to 

Y 


lir   ■ 


254 


THE    LIFE    OF 


f^'     E  ,  i 


r 


f 


have  considered  that  his  wonted  accuracy  might  be 
dispensed  Avith. 

The  description  of  Haidee  applies  to  an  Albanian, 
not  a  Greek  girl.  The  splendour  of  his  father's 
house  is  altogether  preposterous ;  and  the  island  has 
no  resemblance  to  those  of  the  vOyclades.  With  the 
exception  of  Zea,  his  Lordsliip,  however,  did  not 
visit  them.  Some  degree  c  r  error  and  unlike  de- 
scription, runs  indeed  through  the  whole  of  the  still 
life  around  the  portrait  of  Haidee.  The  fete  which 
Lambro  discovers  on  his  return,  is,  however,  prettily 
described ;  and  the  dance  is  as  perfect  as  true. 

And  farther  on  a  group  of  Grecian  girls, 
The  flrsi  and  tallest  her  white  kerchief  waving, 
Were  strung  togethor  like  a  row  of  pearls, 
LinkM  hand  in  hand  and  dancing ;  each  too  having 
Down  her  white  neck  long  floating  auburn  curls. 
Their  leader  sang,  and  bounded  to  her  song, 
With  choral  step  and  voice,  the  virgin  throng. 

The  account  of  Lambro  proceeding  to  the  house  is 
poetically  imagined ;  and,  in  his  character,  may  be 
traced  a  vivid  likeness  of  Ali  Pashaw,  and  happy 
illustrative  allusions  to  the  adventures  of  that  chief. 
The  fourth  canto  was  written  at  Ravenna;  it  is 
so  said  within  itself;  and  the  description  of  Dante's 
sepulchre  there  may  be  quoted  for  its  truth,  and  the 
sweet  modulation  of  the  moral  reflection  interwoven 
with  it. 

I  pass  each  day  where  Dante's  bones  am  laid ; 
A  little  cupola,  more  neat  th»^n  solemn, 
Protects  his  dust ;  but  reverence  here  is  paid 
To  the  bard's  tomb  and  not  the  \^  n  i  'or's  column. 
The  time  must  come  when  both  alike  decay'd, 
The  chieftain's  trophy  and  the  poet's  volume 
Will  sink  where  lie  the  songs  and  warsof  earth, 
Before  Pelides'  death  or  Homer's  birth. 

The  fifth  canto  was  also  written  in  Ravenna.  But 
it  is  not  my  intention  to  analyze  this  eccentric  and 
meandering  poem ;  a  composition  which  cannot  be 


i  j 


LORD   BYRON. 


255 


well  estimated  by  extracts.  Without,  therefore, 
dwelling  at  greater  length  on  its  variety  and  merits, 
I  would  only  observe  that  the  general  accuracy  of 
the  poet*3  descriptions  is  verified  by  that  of  the 
scenes  in  which  Juan  is  placed  in  England,  a  point 
the  reader  may  determine  for  himself;  while  the 
vagueness  of  the  parts  derived  from  books,  or 
sketched  from  fancy,  as  contrasted  with  them,  justify 
the  opinion,  that  invention  was  not  the  most  emi- 
nent faculty  of  Byron,  either  in  scenes  or  in  cha- 
racters. Of  the  demerits  of  the  poem  it  is  only  ne- 
cessary to  remark,  that  it  has  been  proscribed  on 
account  of  its  immorality;  perhaps,  how^ever,  there 
was  more  of  prudery  than  of  equity  in  the  decision, 
at  least  it  is  liable  to  be  so  considered,  so  long  as  re- 
prints are  permitted  of  the  older  dramatists,  with  all 
their  un pruned  licentiousness. 

But  the  wheels  of  Byron's  destiny  were  now  hur- 
rying. Both  in  the  conception  and  composition  of 
Don  Juan  he  evinced  an  increasing  disregard  of  the 
world's  opinion ;  and  the  project  of  The  Liberal  was 
still  more  fatal  to  his  reputation.  Not  only  were  the 
invidious  eyes  of  bigotry  now  eagerly  fixed  upon 
his  conduct^  but  those  of  admiration  were  saddened 
and  turned  away  from  him.  His  principles,  which 
would  have  been  more  correctly  designated  as  para- 
doxes, were  objects  of  jealousy  to  the  Tuscan 
Government;  and  it  has  been  already  seen  that 
there  was  a  disorderliness  about  the  Casa  Lanfranchi 
which  attracted  the  attention  of  the  police.  His 
situation  in  Pisa  became,  in  consequence,  irksome ; 
and  he  resolved  to  remove  to  Genoa,  an  intention 
which  he  carried  into  effect  about  the  end  of  Sep- 
tember, 1822,  at  which  period  his  thoughts  began  to 
gravitate  towards  Greece.  Having  attained  to  the 
summit  of  his  literary  eminence,  he  grew  ambitious 
of  trying  fortune  in  another  field  of  adventure. 

In  all  the  migrations  of  Lord  Byron  there  was  ever 
something  grotesque  and  desultory.      In  moving 


vu 


^ 


•« 


256 


THE   LIFE    CP 


from  Ravenna  to  Pisa,  his  caravan  consisted  of  seven 
servants,  five  carriages,  nine  horses,  a  monkey,  a 
bulldog,  and  a  mastiff,  two  cats,  three  peafowl,  a 
harem  of  hens,  books,  saddles,  and  firearms,  with  a 
chaos  of  fi.*  niture ;  nor  was  the  exodus  less  fantas- 
tical; for  in  addition  to  all  his  own  clanjamphry,  he 
had  Mr.  Hunt's  miscellaneous  assemblage  of  chattels 
and  chattery  and  little  ones. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

Genoa-^Change  in  the  Manners  of  Lrrd  Bi/ron~Residence  at  the  Casa 
Saluzzi — TAe  Liberal— Remarks  on  the  PueCs  Works  in  general^  and 
on  Hunfa  Strictures  on  his  Charccter. 

Previously  to  their  anival  at  Genoa,  a  house  had 
been  taken  for  Lord  Byron  and  the  Guiccioli  in  Al- 
baro,  a  pleasant  village  on  a  hill,  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  city ;  it  was  the  Casa  Saluzzi,  and  I  have  been 
told,  that  during  the  time  he  resided  there,  he  seemed 
to  enjoy  a  more  uniform  and  temperate  gayety  than 
in  any  fonner  period  of  his  life.  There  might  have 
been  less  of  sentiment  in  his  felicity,  than  when  he 
lived  at  Ravenna,  as  he  seldom  wrote  poetry,  but  he 
appeared  to  some  of  his  occasional  visiters,  who 
knew  him  in  London,  to  have  become  more  agreeable 
and  manly.  I  may  add,  at  the  risk  of  sarcasm  for 
the  vanity,  that  in  proof  of  his  mellowed  temper  to- 
wards me,  besides  the  kind  frankness  with  which 
he  received  my  friend,  as  already  mentioned,  he  sent 
me  word,  by  the  Earl  of  Blesinton,  that  he  had  read 
my  novel  of  The  Entail  three  times,  and  thought  the 
old  liCddy  Grippy  one  of  the  most  living-like  heroines 
he  had  ever  met  with.  This  was  the  more  agreeable, 
as  I  had  heard  within  the  same  week,  that  Sir  Walter 
Scott  had  done  and  said  nearly  the  same  thing,    Half 


LORD  BYRON. 


257 


if  seven 
nkey,  a 
ifowl,  a 
I,  with  a 
J  fantas- 
phry,  be 
chattels 


e  at  the  Casa 
genertd,  cm4 


louse  had 
ioli  in  Al- 
icinity  of 
tiave  been 
le  seemed 
tyety  than 
light  have 
a  when  he 
try,  but  he 
iters,  who 
agreeable 
ircasm  for 
temper  to- 
i^ith  which 
ed,  he  sent 
e  had  read 
bought  the 
ke  heroines 
agreeable, 
Sir  Walter 
king,    Half 


the  compliment  from  two  such  men  would  be  some- 
thing  to  be  proud  of. 

Lord  Byron's  residence  at  Albaro  was  separate  from 
that  of  Mr.  Hunt,  and,  in  consequence,  they  were 
more  rarely  together  than  when  domiciled  imder  the 
same  roof  as  at  Pisa.  Indeed,  by  this  tine,  if  one 
m3y  take  Mr.  Hunt's  own  account  of  the  matter,  they 
appear  to  iiave  become  pretty  well  tired  of  each  other. 
He  had  found  out  that  a  peer  is,  as  a  friend,  but  as 
a  plebeian,  and  a  great  poet  not  always  a  high- 
mindfid  i«an.  His  Lordship  had,  on  his  part,  disco- 
vered that  something  more  than  smartness  or  inge- 
nuity is  necessary  to  protect  patronage  from  famili- 
arity. Perhaps  intimate  acquaintance  had  also  tended 
to  enable  him  to  appreciate,  with  greater  accuracy, 
the  meretricious  genius  and  artificial  tastes  of  liis 
copartner  in  The  Liberal.  It  is  certain  that  he  laughed 
at  his  affected  admiration  of  landscapes,  and  consi- 
dered his  descriptions  of  scenery  as  drawn  from  pic- 
tures. 

One  day,  as  a  friend  of  mine  was  conversing  with 
his  Lordship  at  the  Casa  Saluzzi,  on  the  moral  im- 
pressions of  magnificent  scenery,  he  happened  to 
remark  that  he  thought  the  view  of  the  Alps  in  the 
evening,  from  Turin,  the  sublimest  scene  he  had  ever 
beheld.  "  It  is  impossible,"  said  he, "  at  such  a  time, 
when  all  the  west  is  golden  and  glowing  behind  them, 
to  contemplate  such  vast  masses  of  the  Deity  with- 
out being  awed  into  rest,  and  forgetting  such  things 
as  man  and  his  follies."  "  Hunt,"  said  his  Lordship, 
smiling,  "  has  no  perception  of  the  sublimity  of  Alp- 
ine scenery ;  he  calls  a  mountain  a  great  impostor." 

In  the  mean  time  the  materials  for  the  first  number 
of  The  Liberal  had  been  transmitted  to  London, 
where  the  manuscript  of  The  Vision  of  Judgment 
was  already,  and  something  of  its  quality  known. 
All  his  Lordship's  friends  were  disturbed  at  the  idea 
of  the  publication.  They  did  not  like  the  connexion 
he  had  formed  with  Mr.  Shelley — they  liked  stiU  less 

Y2 


■  ■  -A 


'ii- ■:;; 


„<i,  -! : 

4 

l:IIIH 


^^^:illl 


958 


THE   LIFE    OF 


L  'V 


'f 


the  copartnery  with  Mr.  Hunt.  With  the  justice  or 
injustice  of  these  dislikes  I  have  nothing  to  do.  It 
is  an  historical  fact  that  they  existed,  and  became 
motives  with  those  who  deemed  themselves  the  cus^ 
todiers  of  his  Lordship's  fame,  to  seek  a  dissolution 
of  the  association. 

The  first  number  of  The  Liberal,  containing  The 
Vision  of  Judgment,  was  received  soon  after  the  co- 
partnery had  established  tli  mselves  at  Genoa,  accom- 
panied with  hopes  and  fears.  Much  good  could  not 
be  anticipated  from  a  work  which  outraged  the  loyal 
and  decorous  sentiments  of  the  nation  towards  the 
memory  of  George  IIL  To  tlie  second  number  Lord 
Byron  contributed  the  Heaven  and  Earth,  a  sacred 
drama,  which  has  been  much  misrepresented  in  con- 
sequence of  its  fraternity  with  Don  Juan  and  The 
Vision  of  Judgment ;  for  it  contains  no  expression  to 
which  religion  can  object,  nor  breathes  a  thought  at 
variance  with  the  Genesis.  The  history  of  literature 
affords  no  instance  of  a  condemnation  less  justifiable, 
on  the  plea  of  profanity,  than  that  of  this  Mystery. 
That  it  abounds  in  literary  blemishes,  both  of  plan 
and  language,  and  that  there  are  harsh  jangles  and 
discords  in  the  verse,  is  not  disputed;  but  still  it 
abounds  in  a  grave  patriarchal  spirit,  and  is  echo  to 
the  oracles  of  Adam  and  Melchisedek.  It  may  not 
be  worthy  of  Lord  Byron's  genius,  but  it  does  him 
no  dishonour,  and  contains  passages  which  accord 
with  the  solemn  diapasons  of  ancient  devotion.  The 
disgust  which  the  Vision  of  Judgment  had  produced, 
rendered  it  easy  to  persuade  the  world  that  there  was 
impiety  in  the  Heaven  and  Earth,  although,  in  point 
of  fact,  it  may  be  described  as  hallowed  with  the 
Scriptural  theology  of  Milton.  The  objections  to  its 
literary  defects  were  magnified  into  sins  against 
worship  and  religion. 

The  Liberal  stopped  with  the  fourth  number,  I  be- 
lieve. It  disappointed  not  merely  literary  men  in 
jgeneral,  but  even  the  most  special  admirers  of  the 


LORD   BYRON. 


250 


slice  or 
do.    It 

became 
he  cus» 
iolutiou 

ing  The 
:  the  co- 
,accom- 
3uld  not 
he  loyal 
ards  the 
ber  Lord 
a  sacred 
i  in  con- 
md  The 
Bssion  to 
lought  at 
iterature 
istifiable, 
Mystery. 
I  of  plan 
igles  and 
It  still  it 
eclio  to 
may  not 
oes  liim 
1  accord 
)n.    The 
)roduced, 
here  was 
,  in  point 
with  the 
ons  to  its 
against 

her,  I  be- 
men  in 
jrs  of  the 


talents  of  the  contributors.  The  main  defect  of  the 
work  was  a  lack  of  knowledge.  Neither  in  style 
nor  genius,  nor  even  in  general  ability,  was  it  want- 
ing ;  but  where  it  showed  learning  it  was  not  of  a 
kind  in  which  the  age  took  much  interest.  More- 
over, the  manner  and  cast  of  thinking  of  all  the  writers 
in  it  were  familiar  to  the  public,  and  they  were  too 
few  in  number  to  variegate  their  pages  with  sufficient 
novelty.  But  the  main  cause  of  the  failure  was  the 
antipathy  formed  and  fostered  against  it  before  it 
appeared.  It  was  cried  down,  and  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  it  did  not  much  deserve  a  better  fate. 

With  The  Liberal  I  shall  close  my  observations  on 
the  works  of  Lord  Byron.  They  are  too  volumi- 
nous to  be  examined  even  in  the  brief  and  sketchy 
manner  in  which  I  have  considered  those  which  are 
deemed  the  principal.  Besides,  they  are  not,  like 
them,  all  characteristic  of  the  author,  though  pos- 
sessing great  similarity  in  style  and  thought  to  one 
another.  Nor  would  such  general  criticism  accord 
with  the  plan  of  this  work.  Lord  Byron  was  not 
always  thinking  of  himself;  like  other  authors,  he 
sometimes  wrote  from  imaginary  circumstances ;  and 
often  fancied  both  situations  and  feelings  which  had 
no  reference  to  his  own,  nor  to  his  experience.  But 
were  the  matter  deserving  of  the  research,  I  am  per- 
suaded, that  with  Mr.  Moore's  work,  and  the  poet's 
original  journals,  notes,  and  letters,  innumerable  ad- 
ditions might  be  made  to  the  list  of  passages  which 
the  incidents  of  his  own  life  dictated. 

The  abandonment  of  J^he  Liberal  closed  his  Lord- 
ship's connexion  with  Mr.  Hunt ;  their  friendship,  if 
such  ever  really  existed,  was  ended  long  before.  It 
is  to  be  regretted  that  Byron  has  not  given  some  ac- 
count of  it  himself;  for  the  manner  in  which  he  is  re- 
presented to  have  acted  towards  his  unfortunate  part- 
ner, renders  another  version  of  the  tale  desirable. 
At  the  same  time — and  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  are 
disposed  to  magnify  the  faults  and  infirmities  of  Byron 


'iitf 


fi 


I 


I 


260 


THE   LIFE    OF 


— I  fear  there  is  no  excess  of  truth  in  Hunt's  opi- 
nion of  him.  I  judge  by  an  ac(;ount  which  Lord 
Byron  gave  himself  to  a  mutual  friend,  who  did  not, 
however,  see  the  treatment  in  exactly  the  same  light 
as  that  in  which  it  appeared  to  me.  But,  while  I  can- 
not regard  his  Lordship's  conduct  as  otherwise  than 
unworthy,  still  the  pains  which  Mr.  Hunt  has  taken 
to  elaborate  his  character  and  dispositions  into  every 
modification  of  weakness,  almost  justifies  us  in  think- 
ing that  he  was  treated  according  to  his  deserts. 
Byron  had  at  least  the  manners  of  a  gentleman,  and 
though  not  a  judit'ious  knowledge  of  the  world,  he  yet 
possessed  prudence  enough  not  to  be  always  un- 
guarded. Mr.  Hunt  informs  us,  that  when  he  joined 
his  Lordship  at  Leghorn,  his  own  health  was  impaired, 
and  that  his  disease  rather  increased  than  diminished 
during  his  residence  at  Pisa  and  Genoa ;  to  say  no- 
thing of  the  effect  whicli  the  loss  of  his  friend  had  on 
him,  and  the  disappointment  he  suffered  in  The  Li- 
beral, some  excuse  may,  therefore,  be  made  for  him. 
In  such  a  condition,  misapprehensions  were  natural ; 
jocularity  might  be  mistaken  for  sarcasm,  and  caprice 
felt  as  insolence. 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

Lord  Byron  resolves  to  join  the  Greeks— Arrives  at  Cephalonia— Greek 
Factions—  Sends  Emissaries  to  the  Grecian  Chiefs— Writes  to  London 
about  the  Loan — To  Mavrocordato  on  the  Dissensions — Embarks  at 
last  for  Missolonghi 

While  The  Liberal  was  halting  onward  to  its  na- 
tural doom,  the  attention  of  Lord  Byron  was  at- 
tracted towards  the  struggles  of  Greece. 

In  that  country  his  genius  was  first  effectually  de- 
veloped ;  his  name  was  associated  with  many  of  its 
most  romantic  scenes,  and  the  cause  was  popular 


LORD   BYRON. 


261 


with  all  the  educated  and  refined  of  Euiope.  He 
had  formed  besides  a  personal  attachment  to  the 
land,  and  perhaps  many  of  his  most  agreeable  local 
associations  were  fixed  amid  the  ruins  of  Greece, 
and  in  her  desolated  valleys.  The  name  is  indeed 
alone  calculated  to  awaken  the  noblest  feelings  of 
humanity.  The  spirit  of  her  poets,  the  wisdom  and 
the  heroism  of  her  worthies ;  whatever  is  splendid 
in  genius,  unparalleled  in  art,  glorious  in  arms,  and 
wise  in  philosophy,  is  associated  in  their  highest 
excellence  with  that  beautiful  region. 

Had  Lord  Byron  never  been  in  Greece,  he  was, 
undoubtedly,  one  of  those  men  whom  the  resurrec- 
tion of  her  spirit  was  likeliest  to  interest ;  but  he 
was  not  also  one  fitted  to  do  her  cause  much  seiTice. 
His  innate  indolence,  his  sedentary  habits,  and  that 
all-engrossing  consideration  for  himself,  which,  in 
every  situation,  marred  his  best  impulses,  were 
shackles  upon  the  practice  of  the  stern  bravery  in 
himself  which  he  has  so  well  expressed  in  his  works. 

It  was  expected  when  he  sailed  for  Greece,  nor 
was  the  expectation  unreasonable  with  those  who 
believe  imagination  and  passion  to  be  of  the  same 
element,  that  the  enthusiasm  which  flamed  so  highly 
in  his  verse  was  the  spirit  of  action,  and  would 
prompt  him  to  undertake  some  great  enterprise. 
But  he  was  only  an  artist ;  he  could  describe  bold 
adventures  and  represent  high  feeling,  as  other 
gifted  individuals  give  eloquence  to  canvass  and 
activity  to  marble  ;  but  he  did  not  possess  the  wis- 
dom necessary  for  the  instruction  of  councils.  I 
do,  therefore,  venture  to  say,  that  in  embarking  for 
Greece,  he  was  not  entirely  influenced  by  such  exo- 
terical  motives  as  the  love  of  glory  or  the  aspira- 
tions of  heroism.  His  laurels  had  for  some  time 
ceased  to  flourish,  the  sear  and  yellow,  the  mildew 
and  decay,  had  fallen  upon  them,  and  he  was  aware 
that  the  bright  round  of  his  fame  was  ovalling  from 
the  full  and  showing  the  dim  rough  edge  of  waning. 


i  /u. 


Iff, 


262 


THE   LIFE    OF 


^ 


He  was,  moreover,  tired  of  the  Guiccioli,  and 
again  afflicted  with  a  desire  for  some  new  ohject 
with  wiiich  to  be  in  earnest.  The  Greek  cause 
seemed  to  offer  this,  and  a  better  chanee  for  distinc- 
tion than  Jiay  other  pursuit  in  which  he  could  then 
engag-e.  In  the  spring  of  1823  lie  accordiui»'ly  made 
preparations  for  transfer  ring  liimsolf  from  (ienoa  to 
Greece,  and  opened  a  correspondence  with  the 
leaders  of  the  insurrection,  that  the  importance  of 
his  adhesion  might  be  duly  appreciated. 

Greece,  with  a  fair  prospect  of  ultimate  success, 
was  at  that  time  as  distracted  in  her  councils  as 
ever.  Her  arms  had  been  victorious,  but  the  ancient 
jealousy  of  the  Greek  mind  was  umnitigated.  The 
third  campaign  had  commenced,  and  yet  no  regular 
government  had  been  organized ;  the  fiscal  resources 
of  the  country  were  neglected:  a  wild  energy 
against  the  Ottomans  was  all  that  the  Greeks  could 
depend  on  for  continuing  the  war. 

Lord  Byron  arrived  in  Cephalonia  about  the  mid- 
dle of  August,  1823,  where  he  fixed  his  residence 
for  some  time.  This  was  prudent,  but  it  said 
nothing  for  that  spirit  of  enterprise  with  which  a 
man  engaging  in  such  a  cause,  in  such  a  country, 
and  with  such  a  people,  ought  to  have  been  actuated 
— especially  after  Marco  Botzaris,  one  of  the  best 
and  most  distinguished  of  the  chiefs,  had  earnestly 
urged  him  to  join  him  at  Missolonghi.  I  fear  that  I 
may  not  be  able  to  do  justice  to  Byron's  part  in  the 
affairs  of  Greece ;  but  I  shall  try.  He  did  not  dis- 
appoint me,  for  he  only  acted  as  might  have  been 
expected,  from  his  unsteady  energies.  Many,  how- 
ever, of  his  other  friends  longed  in  vain  to  hear  of 
that  blaze  of  heroism,  by  which  they  anticipated 
that  his  appearance  in  the  field  would  be  distin- 
guished. 

Among  his  earliest  proceedings  was  the  equip- 
ment of  forty  Suliotes,  or  Albanians,  whom  he  sent 
to  Marco  Botzaris  to  assist  in  the  defence  of  Mis- 


LORD   BYRON. 


263 


li,  and 
'  object 
,  cause 
iistinc- 
Id  then 
y  made 
enoa  to 
ith  the 
ance  of 

juccess, 
iicils  as 
ancient 
i.    The 

regular 
^sources 

energy 
ks  could 

the  mid- 

Bsidence 

it    said 

which  a 

country, 

actuated 

he  best 

arnestly 

ar  that  I 

rt  in  the 

not  dis- 

ive  been 


ly 


how- 


hear  of 
icipated 
distin- 

e  equip- 
he  sent 
of  Mis- 


8olonghi.  An  adventurer  of  more  darini?  would 
have  gone  with  them ;  and  when  the  battle  was  over, 
iu  which  Botzaris  fell,  he  transmitted  bandages  and 
medicines,  of  which  he  had  brought  a  large  supply 
from  Italy,  and  pecuniary  succour,  to  the  wounded. 
This  was  considerate,  but  there  was  too  much  con- 
sideration in  all  that  he  did  at  this  time,  neither  in 
unison  with  the  impulses  of  his  natural  character, 
nor  consistent  with  the  heroic  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  admirers  of  his  poetiy  imagined  he  was 
kindled. 

In  the  mean  time  he  had  offered  to  advance  one 
thousand  dollars  a-uionth  for  the  succour  of  Misso- 
longhi  and  the  troops  with  Marco  Botzaris  ;  but  the 
government,  instead  of  accepting  the  offer,  inti- 
mated that  they  wished  previously  to  confer  with 
him,  which  he  interpreted  into  a  desire  to  direct  the 
expenditure  of  the  money  to  other  purposes.  In 
this  opinion  his  Lordship  was  probably  not  mistaken ; 
but  his  own  account  of  his  feeling  in  the  business 
does  not  tend  to  exalt  the  magnanimity  of  his 
attachment  to  the  cause  :  "  I  will  take  care,"  says 
he,  "  that  it  is  for  the  public  cause,  otherwise  I  will 
not  advance  a  para.  The  opposition  say  they  want 
to  cajole  me,  and  the  party  in  power  say  the  others 
wish  to  seduce  me ;  so,  between  the  two,  I  have  a 
difficult  part  to  play ;  however,  I  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  factions,  unless  to  reconcile  them,  if 
possible." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  Lord  Byron,  "  the 
searcher  of  dark  bosoms,"  could  have  expressed 
himself  so  weakly  and  with  such  vanity ;  but  the 
shadow  of  coming  fvite  had  already  reached  him, 
and  his  judgment  was  suffering  in  the  blight  that 
had  fallen  on  his  reputation.  To  think  of  the  possi- 
bility of  reconciling  two  Greek  factions,  or  any  fac- 
tions, implies  a  degree  of  ignorance  of  mankind, 
which,  unless  it  had  been  given  in  his  Lordship^s 
own  writing,  would  not  have  been  credible ;  and  as 


w't  li 


m 


264 


THE   LIFE   OF 


^ 


/ 


to  having  nothing  to  do  with  the  factions,  for  what 
purpose  went  he  to  Greece,  unless  it  was  to  take  a 
part  with  one  of  them  1  I  abstain  from  saying  what 
I  think  of  his  hesitation  in  going  to  the  government 
instead  of  sending  two  of  his  associated  adven- 
turers, Mr.  Trelawney  and  Mr.  Hamilton  Brown, 
whom  he  despatched  to  collect  intelligence  as  to  the 
real  state  of  things,  substituting  their  judgment  for 
his  own.  When  the  Hercules,  the  ship  he  chartered 
to  carry  him  to  Greece,  weighed  anchor,  he  was 
committed  with  the  Greeks,  and  every  thing  short 
of  unequivocal  folly  he  was  bound  to  have  done 
with  and  for  them. 

His  two  emissaries  or  envoys  proceeded  to  Tripo- 
lizza,  where  they  found  Colocotroni  seated  in  the 
palace  of  the  late  vizier,  Velhi  Pashaw,  in  great 
power;  the  court-yard  and  galleries  filled  with 
armed  men  in  garrison,  while  there  was  no  enemy 
at  that  time  in  the  More  a  able  to  come  against  them ! 
The  Greek  chieftains,  like  their  classic  predecessors, 
thoudi  embarked  in  the  same  adventure,  were  per- 
sonal adversaries  to  each  other.  Colocotroni  spoke 
of  his  compeer  Mavrocordato  in  the  very  language 
of  Agamemnon,  when  he  said  that  he  had  declared 
to  him,  unless  he  desisted  from  his  intrigues,  he 
would  mount  him  on  an  ass  and  whip  him  out  of 
the  Morea ;  and  that  he  had  only  been  restrained 
from  doing  so  by  the  representation  of  his  friends, 
who  thought  it  would  injure  their  common  cause. 
Such  was  the  spirit  of  the  chiefs  of  the  factions 
which  Lord  Byron  thought  it  not  impossible  to  re- 
concile ! 

At  this  time  Missolonghi  was  in  a  critical  state, 
being  blockaded  both  by  land  and  sea;  and  the 
report  of  Trelawney  to  Lord  Byron  concerning  it, 
was  calculated  to  rouse  his  Lordship  to  activity. 
"  There  have  been,"  says  he,  "  thirty  battles  fought 
and  won  by  the  late  Marco  Botzaris,  and  his  gallant 
tribe  of  Suliotes,  who  are  shut  up  in  Missolonghi. 


LORD   BYRON. 


265 


If  it  fall,  Athens  will  be  in  danger,  and  thousands 
of  throats  cut :  a  few  thousand  dollars  would  pro- 
vide ships  to  relieve  it ;  a  portion  of  this  sum  is 
raised,  and  I  would  coin  my  heart  to  save  this  key 
of  Greece."  Bravely  said !  but  deserving  of  Httle 
attention.  The  fate  of  Missolonghi  could  have  had 
no  visible  effect  on  that  of  Athens. 

The  distance  between  these  two  places  is  more 
than  a  hundred  miles,  and  Lord  Byron  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  local  difficulties  of  the  intervening 
country ;  still  it  was  a  point  to  which  the  eyes  of 
the  Greeks  were  all  at  that  time  directed ;  and  Mav- 
rocordato,  then  in  correspondence  with  Lord  Byron, 
aiid  who  was  endeavouring  to  collect  a  fleet  for  the 
relief  of  the  place,  induced  his  Lordship  to  under- 
take to  provide  the  money  necessary  for  the  equip- 
ment of  the  fleet,  to  the  extent  of  twelve  thousand 
pounds.  It  was  on  this  occasion  his  Lordship  ad- 
dressed a  letter  to  the  Greek  chiefs,  that  deserves  to 
be  quoted,  for  the  sagacity  with  which  it  suggests 
what  may  be  the  conduct  of  the  great  powers  of 
Christendom. 

"  I  must  frankly  confess,"  says  he,  "  that  unless 
union  and  order  are  confirmed,  all  hopes  of  a  loan 
will  be  in  vain,  and  all  the  assistance  which  the 
Greeks  could  expect  from  abroad,  an  assistance 
which  might  be  neither  trifling  nor  worthless,  will 
be  suspended  or  destroyed ;  and  what  is  worse,  the 
great  powers  of  Europe,  of  whom  no  one  was  an 
enemy  to  Greece,  but  seemed  inclined  to  favour  her 
in  consenting  to  the  establishment  of  an  independent 
power,  will  be  persuaded  that  the  Greeks  are  unable 
to  govern  themselves,  and  will,  perhaps,  undertake 
to  arrange  your  disorders  in  such  a  way,  as  to  blast 
the  brightest  hopes  you  indulge,  and  that  are  in- 
dulged by  your  friends." 

In  the  mean  time.  Lord  Byron  was  still  at  the  villa 
he  had  hired  in  Cephalonia,  where  his  conduct  was 
rather  that  of  a  spectator  than  an  ally.    Colonel 


'•f, 

."'S," 

w 


266 


THE    LIFE   OF 


f 


Stanhope,  in  a  letter  of  the  26th  of  November, 
describes  him  as  having  been  there  about  three 
months,  and  spending  his  time  exactly  as  every  one 
acquainted  with  his  habits  must  have  expected. 
"  The  first  six  weeks  he  spent  on  board  a  merchant- 
vessel,  and  seldom  went  on  shore,  except  on  busi- 
ness. Since  that  period  he  has  lived  in  a  little  villa 
m  the  country,  in  absolute  retirement.  Count 
Gamba  (brother  to  the  Guiccioli)  being  his  only  com- 
panion."—Such,  surely,  was  not  exactly  playing 
that  part  in  the  Greek  cause  which  he  had  taught 
the  world  to  look  for.  It  is  true,  that  the  accounts 
received  there  of  the  Greek  aflfiiirs  were  not  then 
favourable.  Every  body  concurred  in  representing 
the  executive  government  as  devoid  of  public  virtue, 
and  actuated  by  avarice  or  personal  ambition.  This 
intelligence  was  certainly  not  calculated  to  increase 
Lord  Byron's  ardour,  and  may  partly  excuse  the 
causes  of  his  personal  inactivity.  I  say  personal, 
because  he  had  written  to  London  to  accelerate  the 
attempt  to  raise  a  loan,  and,  at  the  suggestion  of 
Colonel  Stanhope,  he  addressed  a  letter  to  Mavro- 
cordato  respecting  the  inevitable  consequences  of 
their  calamitous  dissensions.  The  object  of  this 
letter  was  to  induce  a  reconciliation  between  the 
rival  factions,  or  to  throw  the  odium,  of  having 
thwarted  the  loan,  upon  the  Executive,  and  thereby 
to  degrade  the  members  of  it  in  the  opinion  of  the 
people.  "  I  am  very  uneasy,"  said  his  Lordship  to 
the  prince, "  at  hearing  that  the  dissensions  of  Greece 
still  continue ;  and  at  a  moment  when  she  might 
triumph  over  every  thing  in  general,  as  she  has  tri- 
umphed in  part.  Greece  is  at  present  placed  between 
three  measures ;  either  to  reconquer  her  liberty,  or 
to  become  a  dependence  of  the  sovereigns  of  Europe, 
or  to  return  to  a  Turkish  province ;  she  has  already 
the  choice  only  of  these  three  alternatives.  Civil  war 
is  but  a  road  which  leads  to  the  two  latter.  If  she 
is  desirous  of  the  fate  of  Wallachia  and  the  Crimea, 


LORD    BYRON. 


267 


irember, 
it  three 
ery  one 
cpected. 
srchant- 
on  busi- 
ttle  villa 
Count 
[ily  com- 
playing 
(i  taught 
accounts 
not  then 
esenting 
ic  virtue, 
m.    This 
I  increase 
:cuse  the 
personal, 
lerate  the 
estion  of 
,0  Mavro- 
lences  of 
;t  of  this 
ween  the 
if  having 
d  thereby 
on  of  the 
irdship  to 
of  Greece 
le  might 
has  tri- 
1  between 
iberty,  or 
"  Europe, 
s  already 
Civil  war 
If  she 
e  Crimea, 


she  may  obtain  it  to-morrow ;  if  that  of  Italy,  the 
day  after.  But  if  she  wishes  to  become  truly 
Greece^  Jree  and  independent,  she  must  resolve  tO' 
day,  or  she  will  never  again  have  the  opportunity," 

Meanwhile,  the  Greek  people  became  impatient 
for  Lord  Byron  to  come  among  them.  They  looked 
forward  to  his  arrival  as  to  the  coming  of  a  Messiah. 
Three  boats  were  successively  despatched  for  him ; 
and  two  of  them  returned,  one  after  the  other,  with- 
out him.  On  the  29th  of  December,  1823,  however, 
his  Lordship  did  at  last  embark. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Lord  ByrotVs  Conversations  on  Religion  with  Dr.  Kennedy. 

WmLE  Lord  Byron  was  hesitating,  in  the  island  of 
Cephalonia,  about  proceeding  to  Greece,  an  occur- 
rence took  place,  of  which  so  much  has  been  made, 
that  I  may  not  venture  to  cast  it  into  the  notes  of  the 
appendix.  T  allude  to  the  acquaintance  he  formed 
with  a  Dr.  Kennedy,  the  public  ation  of  whose  con- 
versations with  him  on  religion  has  attracted  some 
degree  of  public  attention. 

This  gentleman  was  originally  destined  for  tlie 
Scottish  bar,  but  afterward  became  a  student  of 
medicine,  and  entering  the  medical  department  of 
the  army,  happened  to  be  stationed  i;i  Cephalonia 
when  Lord  Byron  arrived.  He  appears  io  have  been 
a  man  of  kind  dispositions,  possessed  of  a  better 
heart  than  judgment ;  in  all  places  wherever  his  duty 
bore  him  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  condition 
of  the  inhabitants,  and  was  active,  both  in  his  offi- 


-^. ' 


fHV^ 


$ 


268 


THE    LIFE    OF 


cial  and  private  capacity,  to  improve  it.  He  had  a 
taste  for  circulatinj^^  pious  tracts,  and  zealously  co- 
operated in  distributing  copies  of  the  Scriptures. 

Firmly  settled,  himself,  in  a  conviction  of  the 
truth  of  Christianity,  he  was  eaj^er  to  make  converts 
to  his  views  of  the  doctrines ;  but  whether  he  was 
exactly  the  kind  of  apostle  to  achieve  the  conversion 
of  Lord  Byron  may,  perhaps,  be  doubted.  His  sin- 
cerity and  the  disinterestedness  of  his  endeavours 
would  secure  to  him  from  his  Lordsliip  an  indulgent 
and  even  patient  hearing.  But  I  fear  that  without 
some  more  effectual  calling,  the  arguments  he 
appears  to  have  employed  were  not  likely  to  have 
made  Lord  Byron  a  proselyte.  His  Lordship  was 
so  constituted  in  his  mind,  and  by  his  temperament, 
that  nothing  short  of  regeneration  could  have  made 
him  a  Christian,  according  lo  the  gospel  of  Dr. 
Kennedy. 

Lord  Byron  had  but  loose  feelings  in  religion — 
scarcely  any.  His  sensibility  and  a  slight  consti- 
tutional leaning  towards  superstition  and  omens 
showed  that  the  sense  of  devotion  was,  however, 
alive  and  awake  within  him  ;  but  with  him  religion 
was  a  sentiment,  and  the  convictions  of  the  'er- 
standing  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  his  creed. 
That  he  was  deeply  imbued  with  the  essence  of 
natural  piety ;  that  he  often  felt  the  power  and  being 
of  a  God  thrilling  in  all  his  frame,  and  glowing  in 
his  bosom,  I  declare  my  thorough  persuasion  ;  and 
that  he  believed  in  some  of  the  tenets  and  in  the 
philosophy  of  Christianity,  as  they  influence  the 
spirit  and  conduct  of  men,  I  am  as  little  disposed  to 
doubt  ;  especially  if  those  portions  of  his  works 
which  only  trend  towards  the  subject,  and  which 
bear  the  impression  of  fervour  and  earnestness,  may 
be  admitted  as  evidence.  But  he  was  not  a  member 
of  any  particular  church,  and,  without  a  reconstruc- 
tion of  his  mind  and  temperament,  I  venture  to  say, 
he  could  not  have  become  such ;  not  in  consequence, 


LORD   BYRON. 


269 


as  too  many  have  represented,  of  any  predilection, 
either  of  feeling  or  principle,  against  Christianity, 
but  entirely  owing  to  an  organic  peculiarity  of  mind. 
He  reasoned  on  every  topic  by  instinct,  rather  than 
by  induction  or  any  process  of  logic;  and  could 
never  be  so  convinced  of  the  truth  or  falsehood  of 
an  abstract  proposition,  as  to  feel  it  affect  the  cur- 
rent of  his  actions.  He  may  have  assented  to  ar- 
guments, without  being  sensible  of  their  truth  ; 
merely  because  they  were  not  objectionable  to  his 
feelings  at  the  time.  And,  in  the  same  manner,  he 
may  have  disputed  even  fair  inferences,  from  admit- 
ted premises,  if  the  state  of  his  feelings  happened  to 
be  indisposed  to  the  subject.  I  am  persuaded,  never- 
theless, that  to  class  him  among  absolute  infidels 
were  to  do  injustice  to  his  memory,  and  that  he  has 
suffered  uncharitably  in  the  opinion  of  "  the  rigidly 
righteous,"  who,  because  he  had  not  attached  him- 
self to  any  particular  sect  or  congregation,  assumed 
that  he  was  an  adversary  to  religion.  To  claim  for 
him  any  credit,  as  a  pious  man,  would  be  absurd ; 
but  to  suppose  he  had  not  as  deep  an  interest  as 
other  men  "  in  his  soul's  health"  and  welfare,  was 
to  impute  to  him  a  nature  which  cannot  exist.  Be- 
ing, altogether,  a  creature  of  impulses,  he  certainly 
could  not  be  ever  employed  in  doxologies,  or  en- 
gaged in  the  logomachy  of  churchmen ;  but  he  had 
the  sentiment  which  at  a  tamer  age  might  have 
made  him  more  ecclesiastical.  There  was  as  much 
truth  as  joke  in  the  expression,  when  he  wrote 

I  am  myself  a  moderate  Presbyterian. 


A  mind  constituted  like  that  of  Lord  Byron,  was 
little  susceptible  of  impressions  from  the  arguments 
of  ordinary  men.  It  was  necessary  that  Truth,  in 
vijiiting  him,  should  come  arrayed  in  her  solemni- 
ties, and  with  Awe  and  Reverence  for  her  precur- 
sors.    Acknowledged  superiority,  yea,  celebrated 

Z2 


i 


270 


THE   LIFE    OF 


•>>  ,'- 


1 


wisdom,  were  indispensable,  to  bespeak  his  sincere 
attention;  and,  without  disparagement,  it  may  be 
fairly  said,  these  were  not  the  attributes  of  Dr.  Ken- 
nedy. On  the  contrary,  there  was  a  taint  of  cant 
about  him — perhaps  he  only  acted  like  those  who 
have  it — but  still  he  was  not  exactly  the  dignitary 
to  command  unaffected  deference  from  the  shrewd 
and  irreverent  author  of  Don  Juan.  The  result  veri- 
fied what  ought  to  have  been  the  anticipation.  The 
doctor's  attempt  to  quicken  Byron  to  a  sense  of 
grace  failed ;  but  his  Lordship  treated  him  with  po- 
liteness. The  history  of  the  affair  will,  however,  be 
more  intrreHting  than  any  reflections  which  it  is  in 
my  humMe.  power  to  offer. 

Sor?i(;  ■  Dr.  Kennedy's  acquaintances  wished  to 
hCriA  ^urti  ciplain,  in  "a  logical  and  demonstrative 
mai  n  '  th ;  evidences  and  doctrines  of  Christianity ;" 
and  i  Ajr''  Byron,  hearing  of  the  intended  meeting, 
desired  -  b^  present,  and  was  accordingly  invited. 
He  attended ;  but  was  not  present  at  several  others 
which  followed ;  he  however  intimated  to  the  doc- 
tor, that  he  would  be  glad  to  converse  with  him,  and 
the  invitation  was  accepted.  "On  religion,"  says 
the  doctor,  "  his  Lordship  was  in  general  a  hearer, 
proposing  his  difficulties  and  objections  with  more 
fairness  than  could  have  been  expected  from  one 
under  similar  circumstances  ;  and  with  so  much 
candour,  that  they  often  seemed  to  be  proposed 
more  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  information,  or 
satisfactory  answers,  than  from  any  other  mo- 
tive." 

At  the  first  meeting,  Dr.  Kennedy  explained,  be- 
comingly, his  views  of  t'ae  subject,  and  that  he  had 
read  every  work  against  Chri^tiaiiity  which  fell  in 
his  way.  It  was  this  consideration  which  had  in- 
duced him  with  such  confidence  to  enter  upon  the 
discussion,  knowing,  on  the  one  hand,  the  strength 
of  Christianity,  and,  on  the  other,  the  weakness  of 
its  assailants.    "  To  show  you,  therefore,"  said  the 


LORD   BYRON. 


271 


sincere 
nay  be 
r.  Ken- 
of  cant 
se  who 
gnitary 
shrewd 
ult  veri- 
n.    The 
ense  of 
with  po- 
ever,  be 
it  is  in 

rished  to 
istrative 
tianity;" 
meeting, 
'  invited, 
al  others 
tlie  doc^ 
him,  and 


n 


^') 


,    says 

hearer, 
ith  more 
rom  one 
so  much 
jroposed 
ation,  or 
her  mo- 
lined,  be- 
at he  had 
:h  fell  in 

had  in- 
upon  the 

strength 
ikness  of 

said  the 


doctor,  "the  grounds  on  which  I  demand  your  atten- 
tion to  what  I  may  say  on  the  nature  and  evidence 
of  Christianity,  I  shall  mention  the  names  of  somo 
of  the  authors  whose  works  I  have  read  or  con- 
sulted." When  he  had  mentioned  all  these  names, 
Lord  Byron  asked  if  he  had  read  Barrow's  and  Stil- 
lingfleet's  works  ?  The  doctor  replied,  "  I  have  seen 
them,  but  1  have  not  read  them." 

After  a  disquisition,  chiefly  relative  to  the  history 
of  Christianity,  Dr  Kennedy  observed,  "  We  must, 
on  all  occasions,  but  more  particularly  in  fair  and 
logical  discussions  with  skeptics,  or  Deists,  make  a 
distinction  between  Christianity,  as  it  is  found  in 
the  Scriptures,  and  the  errors,  abuses,  and  imper- 
fections of  Christians  themselves.  To  this  his 
Lordship  remarked,  that  he  always  had  taken  care 
to  make  that  distinction,  as  he  knew  enough  of 
Christianity  to  feel  that  it  was  both  necessary  and 
just.  The  doctor  remarked  that  the  contrary  was 
almost  universally  the  case  with  those  who  doubted 
or  denied  the  truth  of  Christianity,  and  proceeded  to 
illustrate  the  statement.  He  then  read  a  summary 
of  th(;  fundamental  doctrines  of  Christianity ;  but  he 
had  not  proceeded  far,  when  he  observed  signs  of 
impatience  in  Lord  Byron,  who  inquired  if  these 
sentiments  accorded  with  the  doctor's  1  and  being 
answered  they  did,  and  with  those  of  all  sound  Chris- 
tians, except  in  one  or  two  minor  things,  his  Lord- 
ship rejoined,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  the  opi- 
nions of  others,  whose  wntings  he  rould  read  at  any 
time,  but  only  his  own.  The  doctor  then  read  on 
till  coming  to  the  expression  "  grace  of  God,"  his 
Lordship  inquired,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  grace  ?" 
"  The  primary  and  fundamental  meaning  of  the 
word,"  replied  the  doctor,  somewhat  surprised  at  his 
ignorance  (I  quote  his  own  language),  "  is  favour ; 
though  it  varies  according  to  the  context  to  express 
that  disposition  of  God  which  leads  him  to  grant  a 
favour,  the  action  of  doing  so,  or  the  fayour  itself. 


:'■  -i 


'i! 


■  I 


■jiSi^' 


■'k ; 


lP-> 


272 


THE   LIFE    OF 


or  its  effects  on  those  who  receive  it."  The  arro- 
gance of  the  use  of  the  term  ignorance  here,  re- 
quires no  animadversion ;  but  to  suppose  the  great- 
est master,  then  in  existence,  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, not  acquainted  with  the  meaning  of  the  word, 
when  he  asked  to  be  informed  of  the  meaning  at- 
tached to  it  by  tlie  individual  making  use  of  it,  gives 
us  some  insight  into  the  true  character  of  the 
teacher.  The  doctor  closed  the  book,  as  he  per- 
ceived that  Lord  Byron,  as  he  says,  had  no  distinct 
conception  of  many  of  the  words  used ;  and  his  Lord- 
ship subjoined,  "What  we  want  is, to  be  convinced 
that  the  Bible  is  true ;  because  if  we  can  believe 
that,  it  will  follow  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  we 
must  believe  all  the  doctrines  it  contains." 

The  reply  to  this  was  to  the  effect,  that  the  obser- 
vation was  partly  just;  but  though  the  strongest 
evidence  were  produced  of  the  Scriptures  being  the 
revealed  will  of  God,  they  (his  Lordship  and  others 
present)  would  still  remain  unbelievers,  unless  they 
knew  and  comprehended  the  doctrines  contained  in 
the  Scriptures.  This  was  not  conclusive,  and  Lord 
Byron  replied,  that  they  wished  him  to  prove  that 
the  Scriptures  were  the  word  of  God,  which  the 
doctor,  with  more  than  apostolic  simplicity,  said 
that  such  was  his  object,  but  he  should  like  to  know 
what  they  deemed  the  clearest  course  to  follow  with 
that  object  in  view.  After  some  farther  conversa- 
tion— "  No  other  plan  was  proposed  by  them,"  says 
the  doctor ;  and  he  adds,  "  they  had  violated  their 
engagement  to  hear  me  for  twelve  hours,  for  which 
I  had  stipulated."  This  may,  perhaps,  satisfy  the 
reader  as  to  the  quality  of  the  doctor's  understand- 
ing ;  but  as  the  subject,  in  its  bearing,  touches  Lord 
Byron's  character,  I  shall  proceed  a  little  farther  into 
the  marrow  of  the  matter. 

The  inculcation  being  finished  for  that  evening. 
Lord  Byron  said,  that  when  he  was  young  his  mo- 
ther brought  him  up  strictly ;  and  that  ke  had  access 


LORD    BYROV. 


273 


to  a  great  many  theological  works,  and  remembered 
that  he  was  particularly  pleased  with  Barrow's  writ- 
ings, and  that  he  also  went  regularly  to  church.  He 
declared  that  he  was  not  an  infidel,  who  denied  the 
Scriptures  and  wished  to  remain  in  unbelief;  on  the 
contrary,  he  was  desirous  to  believe,  as  he  experi- 
enced no  happiness  in  having  his  religious  opinions 
so  unsteady  and  unfixed.  But  he  could  not,  he 
added,  understand  tlie  Scriptures.  "  Those  people 
who  conscientiously  believe,  I  jilways  have  re- 
spected, and  was  always  disposed  to  trust  in  them 
more  than  in  others."  A  desultory  conversation 
then  ensued,  respecting  the  language  and  transla- 
tions of  the  Scriptures ;  in  the  course  of  which  his 
Lordship  remarked,  that  vScott,  in  his  commentary 
on  the  Bible,  did  not  say  that  it  was  the  devil  who 
tempted  Eve,  nor  does  the  Bible  say  a  word  about 
the  devil.  It  is  only  said  that  the  serpent  spoke, 
and  that  it  was  the  subtlest  of  all  the  beasts  of  the 
field. — Will  it  be  said  that  truth  and  reason  were 
served  by  Dr.  Kennedy's*  answer?  "As  beasts 
have  not  the  faculty  of  speech,  the  just  inference  is, 
that  the  beast  was  only  an  instrument  made  use  of 
by  some  invisible  and  superior  being.  The  Scrip- 
tures accordingly  tell  us,  that  the  devil  is  the  father 
of  lies — the  lie  made  by  the  serpent  to  Eve  being 
the  first  we  have  on  record ;  they  call  him  also  a 
murderer  from  the  beginning,  as  he  was  the  cause 
of  the  sentence  of  death  which  was  pronounced 
against  Adam  and  all  his  posterity;  and  still  far- 
ther, to  remove  all  doubt,  and  to  identify  him  as 
the  agent  who  used  the  serpent  as  an  instrument,  he 
is  called  the  serpent — the  devil." 

Lord  Byron  inquired  what  the  doctor  thought  of 
the  theory  of  Warburton,  that  the  Jews  had  no  dis- 
tinct idea  of  a  future  state  1  The  doctor  acknow- 
ledged that  he  had  often  seen,  but  had  never  read  The 

*  The  doctor  evidently  makes  a  mistake  in  confounding  Sir  William 
Hamilton  with  Sir  William  Drummond. 


,Jj 


m 


'm  ■■>>, 


>> 


274 


THE   LIFE    OF 


^ 


Divine  Legation.  And  yet,  he  added,  had  Warbur- 
ton  read  his  Bible  with  more  simplicity  and  atten- 
tion, he  would  have  enjoyed  a  more  solid  and  ho- 
nourable fume. 

His  Lordship  then  said,  that  one  of  the  greatest  diffi- 
culties he  had  met  with  was  the  existence  of  so  much 
pure  and  unmixed  evil  in  the  world,  and  which  he 
could  not  reconcile  to  the  idea  of  a  benevolent  Cre- 
ator. The  doctor  set  aside  the  question  as  to  the 
origin  of  evil;  but  granted  the  extensive  existence 
of  evil  in  the  universe ;  to  remedy  which,  he  said, 
the  Gospel  was  proclaimed ;  and,  after  some  of  the 
customary  commonplaces,  he  ascribed  much  of  the 
existing  evil  to  the  sla(;knessof  Christians  in  spread- 
ing the  Gospel. 

"  Is  there  not,"  said  his  Lordship,  "  some  part  of 
the  New  Testament  where  it  appears  that  the  disci- 
ples were  struck  with  the  state  of  physical  evil,  and 
made  inquiries  into  the  cause  ?" — "  There  are  two 
passages,"  was  the  reply.  The  disciples  inquired, 
when  they  saw  a  man  who  had  been  bom  blind, 
whether  it  was  owing  to  his  own  or  his  parent's  sin  % 
— and,  after  quoting  the  «>ther  instance,  he  concludes, 
that  moral  and  physical  evil  in  individuals  are  not 
always  a  judgment  or  punishment,  but  are  intended 
to  answer  certain  ends  in  the  government  of  the 
world. 

"  Is  there  not,"  said  his  Lordship,  "  a  prophecy  in 
the  New  Testament  which  it  is  alleged  has  not 
been  fulfilled,  although  it  was  declared  that  the  end 
of  the  world  would  come  before  the  generation  then 
existing  should  pass  away  1" — "  The  prediction," 
I'said  Dr.  Kennedy,  "related  to  the  destruction  of 
Jerusalem,  which  certainly  took  place  within  the 
time  assigned ;  though  some  of  the  expressions  de- 
scriptive of  the  signs  of  that  remarkable  event  are 
of  such  a  nature  as  to  appear  to  apply  to  Christ's 
coming  to  judge  the  world  at  the  end  of  time." 

His  Lordship  then  asked,  if  the  doctor  thought 


1    M. 


LORD   BTRON. 


276 


rarbur- 

atten- 

mdho- 

3St  diffi- 
10  much 
hich  he 
;nt  Cre- 
s  to  the 
tistence 
he  said, 
e  of  the 
h  of  the 
L  spread- 

B  part  of 
he  disci- 
evil,  and 
5  are  two 
inquired, 
m  blind, 
nt's  sin? 
)ncludes, 
s  are  not 
intended 
It  of  the 

phecy  in 
has  not 
t  the  end 
ion  then 
[diction," 
iction  of 
ithin  the 

ions  de- 
(vent  are 

Christ's 

..e." 
thought 


that  there  had  been  fewer  wars  and  persecutions, 
and  less  slaughter  and  misery,  in  the  world  since  the 
introduction  of  Christianity  than  before  ?  The  doc- 
tor answered  this  by  observing,  that  sinc^e  Chris- 
tianity inculcates  peace  and  good-will  to  all  men,  we 
must  always  separate  pure  religion  from  the  abuses 
of  which  its  professors  are  guilty. 

Two  other  opinions  were  expressed  by  his  Lord- 
ship in  the  conversation.  The  doctor,  in  speaking 
of  the  sovereignty  of  God,  had  alluded  to  thf  «•  ni- 
litude  of  the  potter  and  his  clay;  for  his  I  -hip 
said,  if  he  were  broken  in  pieces,  he  would  o 

the  potter,  "  Why  do  you  treat  me  thus  1"    Tl 
was  an  absurdity.     It  was — if  the  whole  world  were 
going  to  hell,  he  would  prefer  going  with  them  than 
go  alone  to  heaven. 

Such  was  the  result  of  the  first  council  of  Cepha- 
lonia,  if  one  may  venture  the  allusion.  It  is  mani- 
fest, without  saying  much  for  Lord  Byron's  inge- 
nuity, that  he  was  fully  a  match  for  the  doctor,  and 
that  he  was  not  unacquainted  with  the  subject  under 
discussion. 

In  the  next  conversation  Lord  Byron  repeated,  "  I 
have  no  wish  to  reject  Christianity  without  investi- 
gation; on  the  contrary,  I  am  very  desirous  of  believ- 
ing. But  I  do  not  see  very  much  the  need  of  a  Sa- 
'  viour,  nor  the  utility  of  prayer.  Devotion  is  the  affec- 
tion of  the  heart,  and  this  I  feel.  When  I  view  the 
wonders  of  creation,  I  bow  to  the  Majesty  of  Hea- 
ven ;  and  when  I  feel  the  enjoyments  of  life,  I  feel 
grateful  to  God  for  having  bestowed  them  upon  me." 
Upon  this  some  discussion  arose,  turning  chiefly  on 
the  passage  in  the  third  chapter  of  John,  "  Unless  a 
man  is  converted,  he  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven ;"  which  naturally  led  to  an  explanatory  in- 
terlocutor, concerning  new  birth,  regeneration,  &c. ; 
and  thence  diverged  into  the  topics  which  had  been 
the  subject  of  the  former  conversation. 
Among  other  things.  Lord  Byron  inquired,  if  the 


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THE   LIFE   OF 


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doctor  really  thought  that  the  devil  appeared  before 
God,  as  is  mentioned  in  the  book  of  Job,  or  is  it  only 
an  allegorical  or  poetical  mode  of  speaking  1" — The 
reply  was,  **  I  believe  it  in  the  strict  and  literal  mean- 
ing." 

"  If  it  be  received  in  a  literal  sense,"  said  his 
Lordship,  "  it  gives  me  a  much  higher  idea  of  the 
majesty,  power,  and  wisdom  of  God,  to  believe  that 
the  devils  themselves  are  at  his  nod,  and  are  subject 
to  his  control,  with  as  much  ease  as  the  elements  of 
nature  follow  the  respective  laws  which  his  will  has 
assigned  them." 

This  notion  was  characteristic,  and  the  poetical 
feeling  in  which  it  originated,  when  the  doctor  at- 
tempted to  explain  the  doctrine  of  the  Manicheans, 
was  still  more  distinctly  developed ;  for  his  Lordship 
again  expressed  how  much  the  belief  of  the  real  ap- 
pearance of  Satan,  to  hear  and  obey  the  commands  of 
God,  added  to  his  views  of  the  grandeur  and  majesty 
of  the  Creator. 

This  second  conversation  was  more  desultory  than 
the  first ;  religion  was  brought  in  only  incidentally, 
until  his  Lordship  said,  "  I  do  not  reject  the  doctriiies 
of  Christianity;  I  want  only  sufficient  proofs  of  it,  to 
take  up  the  profession  in  earnest ;  and  I  do  not  believe 
myself  to  be  so  bad  a  Christian  as  many  of  them  who 
preach  against  me  with  the  greatest  fury — many  of 
whom  I  have  never  seen  nor  injured." 

"You  have  only  to  examine  the  causes  which  pre- 
vent you"  (from  being  a  true  believer),  said  the  doc- 
tor, "  and  you  will  find  they  are  futile,  and  only  tend 
to  withhold  you  from  the  enjoyment  of  real  happi- 
ness ;  which  at  present  it  is  impossible  you  can  find." 
"  What,  then,  you  think  me  in  a  very  bad  way  1" 
"  I  certainly  think  you  are,"  was  the  reply ;  "  and 
this  I  say,  not  on  my  own  authority,  but  on  that  of 
the  Scriptures. — Your  Lordship  must  be  converted, 
and  must  be  reformed,  before  any  thing  can  be  said 
of  you,  except  that  you  are  bad,  and  in  a  bad  way." 


LORD  BYRON. 


277 


ed  bftfore 
is  it  only 
r1"— The 
ral  mean- 
said  his 
ea  of  the 
lieve  that 
re  subject 
ements  of 
is  will  has 

le  poetical 
doctor  at- 
anicheans, 
s  Lordship 
tie  real  ap- 
nmands  of 
[id  majesty 

iltory  than 
cidentaHy, 
e  doctriiies 
>ofsofit,to 
not  believe 
them  who 
—many  of 

which  pre- 
id  the  doc- 
1  only  tend 
real  happi- 
ucanfina." 
bad  way  T* 
ply;  "and 
on  that  of 

converted, 
;anbe  said 

bad  way." 


"  But,"  replied  his  Lo-^dship, "  I  already  believe  in 
predestination,  whiith  I  know  you  believe,  and  in  the 
depravity  of  the  human  heart  in  general,  and  of  my 
own  in  pai  ticular ;  thus  you  see  there  are  two  points 
in  which  we  agree.  I  shall  get  at  the  othere  by-and- 
by.  You  cannot  expect  me  to  become  a  perfect 
Christian  at  once." 

And  farther  his  Lordship  subjoined  : 

**  Predestination  appears  to  me  just ;  from  my  own 
reflection  and  experience,  I  am  influenced  in  a  way 
which  is  incomprehensible,  and  am  led  to  do  things 
whi(rh  I  never  intended ;  and  if  there  is,  as  we  all 
admit,  a  Supreme  Ruler  of  the  universe ;  and  if,  as 
you  say,  he  has  the  actions  of  the  devils,  as  well  as 
of  his  own  angels,  completely  at  his  command,  then 
those  influences,  or  those  arrangements  of  circum- 
stances, which  lead  us  to  do  things  against  our  will, 
or  with  ill-will,  must  be  also  under  his  directions. 
But  I  have  never  entered  into  the  depths  of  the  sub- 
ject ;  I  have  contented  myself  with  believing  that 
there  is  a  predestination  of  events,  and  that  predes- 
tination depends  on  the  will  of  God." 

Dr.  Kennedy,  in  speaking  of  this  second  conversa- 
tion, bears  testimony  to  the  respectfulness  of  his 
Lordship's  attention.  "  There  was  nothing  in  his 
manner  which  approached  to  levityi  or  any  thing  that 
indicated  a  wish  to  mock  at  religion ;  though,  on  the 
other  hand,  an  able  dissembler  would  have  done  and 
said  all  that  he  did,  with  such  feelings  and  intentions." 

Subsequent  to  the  second  conversation.  Dr.  Ken- 
nedy asked  a  gentleman  who  was  intimate  with  Lord 
Byron,  if  he  really  thought  his  Lordship  serious  in 
his  desire  to  hear  religion  explained.  "  Has  he  exhi- 
bited any  contempt  or  ridicule  at  what  I  have  said  1" 
This  gentleman  assured  him  that  he  had  never 
heard  Byron  allude  to  the  subject  in  any  way  which 
could  induce  him  to  suspect  that  he  was  merely 
amusing  himself.  "  But,  on  the  contrary,  he  always 
.names  you  with  respect.    I  do  not,  however,  think 

Aa 


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':.  i 


111 


'p-t 


278 


THE   LIFE    OF 


you  have  made  much  impression  on  him :  he  is  just 
the  same  fellow  as  before.  He  says,  he  does  not 
know  what  religion  you  are  of,  for  you  neither  adhere 
to  creeds  or  councils." 

It  ought  here  to  be  noticed,  as  showing  the  general 
opinion  entertained  of  his  Lordship  with  respect  to 
these  polemical  conversations,  that  the  wits  of  the 
garrison  made  themselves  merry  with  what  was  going 
on.  Some  of  them  affected  to  believe,  or  did  so,  that 
Lord  Byron's  wish  to  hear  Dr.  Kennedy  proceeded 
from  a  desire  to  have  an  accurate  idea  of  the  opinions 
and  manners  of  the  Methodists,  in  order  that  he  might 
make  Don  Juan  become  one  for  a  time,  and  so  be 
enabled  to  paint  their  conduct  with  greater  accuracy. 

The  third  conversation  took  place  soon  after  this 
comment  had  been  made  on  Lord  Byron's  conduct. 
The  doctor  inquired  if  his  Lordship  had  read  any  of 
the  religious  books  he  had  sent.  "  I  have  looked,*^ 
replied  Byron,  "  into  Boston's  Fourfold  State,  but  I 
have  not  had  time  to  read  it  far :  I  am  afraid  it  is  too 
deep  for  me." 

Although  there  was  no  systematic  design,  on  the 
part  of  Lord  Byron,  to  make  Dr.  Kennedy  subser- 
vient to  any  scheme  of  ridicule ;  yet  it  is  evident 
that  he  was  not  so  serious  as  the  doctor  so  meritori- 
ously desired. 

"I  have  begun,"  said  his  Lordship,  "very  fairly; 
I  have  given  some  of  your  tracts  to  Fletcher  (hiis 
valet)  who  is  a  good  sort  of  man,  but  still  wants,  like 
myself,  some  reformation;  and  I  hope  he  will  spread 
them  among  the  other  servants,  who  req^-^»*e  it  still 
more.  Bruno,  the  physician,  and  Gam^y  re  busy, 
reading  some  of  the  Italian  tracts ;  and  1  nt/peit  will 
have  a  good  effect  on  them.  The  former  is  rather 
too  decided  against  it  at  present ;  and  too  much  en- 
gaged with  a  spirit  of  enthusiasm  for  his  own  profes- 
sion,'to  attend  to  other  subjects;  but  we  must  have 
patience,  and  we  shall  see  what  has  been  the  result. 
I  do  not  fail  to  read,  from  time  to  time,  my  Bible, 
though  not,  perhaps,  so  much  as  I  should." 


LORD   BYROX. 


279 


« 


Have  you  begun  to  pray  that  you  may  under- 
stand it?" 

"  Not  yet.  I  have  not  arrived  at  that  pitch  of  faith 
yet ;  but  it  may  come  by-and-by.  You  are  in  too 
great  a  hurry." 

His  Lordship  then  went  to  a  side-table,  on  which  a 
great  number  of  books  were  ranged;  and,  taking 
hold  of  an  octavo,  gave  it  to  the  doctor.  It  was 
**  Illustrations  of  the  Moral  Government  of  God ;"  by 
E.  Smith,  M.D.,  London.  "  The  author,"  said  he, 
^  proves  mat  the  punishment  of  hell  is  not  eternal ; 
it  will  have  a  termination." 

"  The  author,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  is,  I  suppose, 
one  of  the  Socinians;  who,  in  a  short  time,  will  try 
to  get  rid  of  every  doctrine  in  the  Bible.  How  did 
your  Lordship  get  hold  of  this  book  1" 

**  They  sent  it  out  to  me  from  England,  to  make  a 
convert  of  me,  I  suppose.  The  arguments  are  strong, 
drawn  from  the  Bible  itself;  and  by  showing  that  a 
time  will  come  when  every  intelligent  creature  shall 
be  supremely  happy,  and  eternally  so,  it  expunges 
that  shocking  doctrine,  that  sin  and  misery  will  for 
ever  exist  under  the  government  of  God,  whose 
highest  attribute  is  love  and  goodness.  To  my  pre- 
sent apprehension,  it  would  be  a  most  desirable  thing, 
could  it  be  proved  that,  alternately,  all  created  beings 
were  to  be  happy.  This  would  appear  to  be  most 
consistent  with  the  nature  of  God. — I  cannot  yield  to 
your  doctrine  of  the  eternal  duration  of  punishment. 
— This  author^s  opinion  is  more  humane;  and,  I 
think,  he  supports  it  very  strongly  from  Scripture." 

The  fourth  conversation  was  still  more  desultory, 
being  carried  on  at  table  amid  company ;  in  the  course 
of  it  Lord  Byron,  however,  declared  "  that  he  was  so 
much  of  a  believer  as  to  be  of  opinion  that  there  is  no 
contradiction  in  the  Scriptures  which  cannot  be  re- 
conciled by  an  attentive  consideration  and  compari- 
son of  passages." 

Jt  is  needless  to  remark  that  Lord  Byron,  in  the 


M     l;., 


280 


THE   LIFE   OF 


\ 


IfnVtf 

P, 

1::: 

i 

i:'. 

.V         ; 

>    i."f' 

.,    ♦ 

'  '^^^^^^Bi 

1 

M- 

'<^^^i 
j^l 

1 

:;;« 

!■■! 


!  »  J 


'      ''■*''  1 

H 

fear 
Ukei 

'■'  'i 

1 

! 

;|l 

1 

1 

m:, 

J 

1 

course  of  these  conversations,  was  incapable  of  pre- 
serving a  consistent  seriousness.  The  volatility  of 
his  humour  was  constantly  leading  him  into  playful- 
ness, and  he  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  making  a 
pun  or  saying  a  quaint  thing.  "  Do  you  know,"  said 
he  to  the  doctor,  "  I  am  nearly  reconciled  to  St. 
Paul ;  for  he  says  there  is  no  difference  between  the 
Jews  and  the  Greeks,  and  I  am  exactly  of  the  same 
opinion,  for  the  character  of  both  is  equally  vile." 

Upon  the  whole  it  must  be  conceded,  that  whatever 
was  the  degree  of  Lord  B3nron's  dubiety  as  to  points 
of  faith  and  doctrine,  he  could  not  be  accused  of  gross 
ignorance,  nor  described  as  animated  by  any  hostile 
feeling  against  religion.  •      ^   ^ 

In  this  sketch  of  these  conversations,  I  have  re- 
stricted myself  chiefly  to  those  points  which  related 
to  his  Lordship's  own  sentiments  and  belief.  It  would 
have  been  inconsistent  with  the  concise  limits  of 
this  work  to  have  detailed  the  controversies.  A  fair 
summary  of  what  Byron  did  not  believe,  what  he  was 
disposea  to  believe  but  had  not  satisfied  himself  with 
the  evidence,  and  what  he  did  believe,  seemed  to  be 
the  task  I  ought  to  undertake.  The  result  confirmed 
the  statement  of  his  Lordship's  religious  condition, 
given  in  the  preliminary  remarks ;  which,  I  ought  to 
mention,  were  written  before  I  looked  into  Dr.  Ken- 
nedy's book;  and  the  statement  is  not  different 
from  the  estimate  which  the  conversations  warrant. 
It  is  true  that  Lord  Byron's  part  in  the  conversations 
is  not  very  characteristic ;  but  the  integrity  of  Dr. 
Kennedy  is  a  suflicient  assurance  that  they  are  sub- 
stantially correct.* 

*  Cionnected  with  this  subject,  there  is  a  letter  in  the  Appendix,  (him 
Fletcher  to  the  doctor,  concerning  his  master's  religious  opinions,  well 
worthy  of  presenraton  on  its  own  account,  as  aflfbrding  a  tolerably  Ihir 
specimen  of  what  persons  in  his  condition  of  llf«  think  of  religion  I 
fear  poor  Dr.  Kennedy  must  have  thought  of  the  proverb  **  like  master 


LORD  BTRON. 


281 


of  pre- 
tility  of 
playful" 
aking  a 
iw  "  said 
i  to  St. 
veen  the 
he  same 
vile." 
whatever 
to  points 
I  of  j?ross 
ly  hostile 

have  re- 
;h  related 
It  would 
limits  of 
s.    A  fair 
lat  he  was 
iself  with 
med  to  be 
confirmed 
condition, 
I  ought  to 
>Dr.Ken- 
diflferent 
}  warrant, 
versations 
ity  of  Dr. 
y  are  sub- 


ppendix,  ftum 
opinions,  well 
I  tolerably  Ihlr 
of  religion  1 
**  like  master 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Voyage  to  Cephalonia^Letter— Count  Gamba*s  Addreaa—Grate/ul 
Feeling8  of  the  Turks — Endeavours  qf  Lord  Byron  to  mitigate  th* 
Horrors  of  the  War. 

Lord  Byron,  after  leaving  Argostoli,  on  the  29th 
December,  1823,  the  port  oif  Cephalonia,  sailed  for 
Zante,  where  he  took  on  board  a  quantity  of  specie. 
Although  the  distance  from  Zante  to  Missolonghi  is 
but  a  few  hours'  sail,  the  voyage  was  yet  not  v/ithout 
adventures.  Missolonghi,  as  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, was  then  blockaded  by  the  Turks,  and  some 
address  was  necessary,  on  that  account,  to  effect  an 
entrance,  independent  of  the  difficulties,  at  all  times, 
of  navigating  the  canals  which  intersect  the  shallows. 
In  the  following  letter  to  Colonel  Stanhope,  his  Lord- 
ship gives  an  account  of  what  took  place.  It  is  very 
characteristic;  I  shall  therefore  quote  it.. 

^^Scrqfer,  or  some  such  name,  on  board  a  Cepha* 
loniate  Mistice,  Dec,  31, 1823 
^My  dear  Stanhope, 

"  We  are  just  arrived  here — that  is,  part  of  my 
people  and  I,  with  some  things,  &c.,  and  which  it 
may  be  as  well  not  to  specify  in  a  letter  (which  has 
a  risk  of  being  intercepted,  perhaps);  but  Gamba 
and  my  horses,  negro,  steward,  and  the  press,  and  all 
the  committee  things,  also  some  eight  thousand  dol- 
lars of  mine  (but  never  mind,  we  have  more  left — do 
you  understand?)  are  taken  by  the  Turkish  frigates; 
and  my  party  and  myself,  in  another  boat,  have  had 
a  narrow  escape  last  night  (being  close  under  theii 
stem,  and  hailed,  but  we  would  not  answer,  and  bore 
away)  as  well  as  this  morning.  Here  we  are,  with 
sun  and  charming  weather,  within  a  pretty  little  port 

Aa2 


3/  t 


>mfm 


P 


^ 


I    : 


>    '-m 


282 


THE   LIFE   OF 


enough;  but  whether  our  Turkish  friends  may  not 
send  in  their  boats,  and  take  us  out  (for  we  have  no 
arms,  except  two  carbines  and  some  pistols,  and,  I 
suspect,  not  more  than  four  fighting  people  on  board), 
is  another  question ;  especially  if  we  remain  long 
here,  since  we  are  blocked  out  of  Missolonghi  by  the 
direct  entrance.  You  had  better  send  my  friend 
George  Drake,  and  a  body  of  Suliotes,  to  escort  us  by 
land  or  by  the  canals,  with  all  convenient  speeff. 
Gamba  and  our  Bombard  are  taken  into  Patras,  I 
suppose,  and  we  must  take  a  turn  at  the  Turks  to  set 
them  out.  But  where  the  devil  is  the  fleet  gone  ?  me 
Greek,  I  mean — ^leaving  us  to  get  in  without  the  least 
intimation  to  take  heed  that  the  Moslems  were  out 
again.  Make  my  respects  to  Mavrocordato,  and  say 
that  I  am  here  at  his  disposal.  I  am  uneasy  at  being 
here.    We  are  very  well. 

"Yours,  &c. 

"  N.  B. 
"  P.S.  The  Bombard  was  twelve  miles  out  when 
taken ;  at  least,  so  it  appeared  to  us  (if  taken  she 
actually  be,  for  it  is  not  certain),  and  we  had  to 
escape  from  another  vessel  that  stood  right  in  be- 
tween us  and  the  port.^' 


»» 


Colonel  Stanhope  on  receiving  this  despatch, 
which  was  carried  to  him  by  two  of  Lord  Byron's 
servants,  sent  two  armed  boats,  and  a  company  of 
Suliotes,  to  escort  his  Lordship  to  Missolonghi, 
where  he  arrived  on  the  6th  of  January,  and  was 
received  with  military  honours,  and  the  most  en- 
thusiastic demonstrations  of  popular  joy.  No  mark 
of  respect  whieh  the  Greeks  could  think  of  was 
omitted.  The  ships  fired  a  salute  as  he  passed. 
Prince  Mavrocordato,  and  all  the  authorities,  with 
the  troops  and  the  population,  met  him  on  his  land- 
ing, and  accompanied  him  to  the  house  which  had 
been  prepared  for  him,  amid  the  shouts  of  the  mul* 
titude  and  the  discharge  of  cannon. 


/ 


,i,    f'*^ 


LORD   BYROK. 


283 


may  not 
have  no 
Is,  and,  I 
n  board), 
ain  long 
rhi  by  the 
ny  friend 
cort  us  by 
nt  speed. 
Patras,  1 
irks  10  get 
^onel  the 
t  the  least 
were  out 
o,  and  say 
sy  at  being 

&c. 

"  N.  B. 

out  when 
taken  she 
^e  had  to 
ght  in  be- 

despatch, 
■d  Byron's 
ompany  of 
issolonghi, 
and  was 
J  most  en- 
No  mark 
Ilk  of  was 
he  passed, 
rities,  with 
►n  his  land- 
which  had 
of  the  mul- 


In  the  mean  time,  Count  Gamba  and  his  compa- 
nions being  taken  before  Yusuff  Pashaw  at  Patras, 
expected  to  share  the  fate  of  certain  unfortunate 
prisoners  whom  that  stern  chief  had  sacrificed  the 
preceding  year  at  Prevesa;  and  their  fears  would 
probably  have  been  realized  but  for  the  intrepid  pre- 
sence of  mind  displayed  by  the  Count,  who,  assuming 
a  haughty  style,  accused  the  Ottoman  captain  of  the 
frigate  of  a  breach  of  neutrality,  in  detaining  a  ves- 
sel under  English  colours,  and  conch  ded  by  telling 
the  Pashaw  that  he  might  expect  the  vengeance  o? 
the  British  government  in  thus  interrupting  a  noble- 
man who  was  merely  on  his  travels,  and  bound  to 
Calamata.  Perhaps,  ho  we  ver,  another  circumstance 
had  quite  as  much  influence  with  the  Pashaw  as  this 
bravery.  In  the  master  of  the  vessel  he  recognised 
a  person  who  had  saved  his  life  in  the  Black  Sea 
fifteen  years  before,  and  in  consequence  not  only 
consented  to  the  vessePs  release,  but  treated  the 
whole  of  the  passengers  with  the  utmost  attention, 
and  even  urged  them  to  take  a  day's  shooting  in  the 
neighbourhood.* 

*  To  the  honour  of  the  Turks,  grateftil  recollections  of  this  kind  are 
not  rare  among  them :  I  experienced  a  remarkable  example  of  it  myself. 
Having  entered  Wtdin  when  it  was  besieged  by  the  Russians,  in  the 
winter  of  1810 — 11,  I  was  closely  questioned  as  to  the  motives  of  my 
visit,  by  Hassan  Pashaw,  the  successor  of  the  celebrated  Paswan  Oglou, 
then  governor  of  the  fortress.  1  explained  to  him,  firankly,  the  motives 
of  my  visit,  but  he  required  that  T  should  deliver  my  lettersf  and  papers 
to  be  examined.  This  I  refused  to  do,  unless  he  had  a  person  who 
could  read  English,  and  understand  it  when  spoken.  In  the  mean  time 
my  Tartar,  the  better  to  prove  our  innocence  of  all  sinister  purposes, 
turned  out  the  contents  of  his  saddle-bags,  and  behold,  among  several 
letters  and  parcels  was  a  packet  for  Prince  Italinski,  fVom  the  French 
minister  at  Constantinople.  This  I  of  course  instantly  ordered  to  be 
delivered  to  the  pashaw.  In  the  evening,  an  old  Turk  who  had  beea 
present  during  the  proceedings,  and  at  the  subsequent  consultations  as 
to  what  should  be  done  with  me,  called  and  advised  me  to  leave  the 
town ;  telling  me  at  the  same  time,  that  when  he  was  a  boy  he  had  beea 
taken  prisoner  by  the  Hungarians  at  Belgrade,  and  had  been  so  kindly 
treated,  that  after  being  sent  home  he  had  never  ceased  to  long  fbr  an  oj^ 
portunity  of  repaying  that  kindness  to  8ome  other  Frank,  and  that  he 
thought  my  case  afforded  an  opportunity.  He  concluded  by  offering  me 
the  use  of  twenty  thousand  piastres,  about  a  thousand  pounds  sterling, 
to  take  DM  acrosa  the  contineut  to  England.    I  was  thea  on  my  way  to 


i  i 


284 


THE   LIFE   OF 


^ 


The  first  measures  which  his  Lordship  attempted 
after  his  arrival,  was  to  mitigate  tlie  ferocity  with 
which  the  war  was  carried  on ;  one  of  the  objects,  as 
he  explained  to  my  friend  who  visited  him  at  Genoa, 
which  induced  him  to  embark  in  the  cause.  And  it 
happened  that  the  very  day  he  reached  the  town 
was  signalized  by  his  rescuing  a  Turk  who  had  fallen 
into  the  hands  of  some  Greek  sailors.  This  man 
was  clothed  by  his  Lordship's  orders,  and  sent  over 
to  Patras ;  and  soon  after  Count  Gamba's  release, 
hearing  that  four  other  Turks  were  prisoners  in 
Missolonghi,  he  requested  that  they  might  be  placed 
in  his  hands,  which  was  immediately  granted.  These 
he  also  sent  to  Patras,  with  the  letter,  of  which  a 
copy  is  in  the  Appendix,  addressed  to  Yusuff,  ex- 
pressing his  hope  that  the  prisoners  thenceforward 
taken  on  both  sides  would  be  treated  with  humanity. 
This  act  was  followed  by  another  equally  praise- 
worthy. A  Greek  cruiser  having  captured  a  Turkish 
boat,  in  which  there  was  a  number  of  passengers, 
chiefly  women  and  children,  they  were  also  placed 
at  the  disposal  of  his  Lordship,  at  his  particular  re- 
quest. Captain  Parry  has  given  a  description  of  the 
scene  between  Lord  Byron,  and  that  multitude  of 
mothers  and  children,  too  interesting  to  be  omitted 
here.  "  I  was  summoned  to  attend  him,  and  receive 
his  orders  that  every  thing  should  be  done  which 

OrsoTs,  to  meet  a  gentleman  firom  Vienna,  but  being  informed  that  he 
'would  not  be  tbere,  I  resolved  to  return  to  Constantinople,  and  accord- 
ingly  accepted  flrom  the  Turk  so  much  money  as  would  serve  for  the 
expenses  of  the  journey,  giving  him  an  order  for  repayment  on  an  agent 
whose  name  he  had  never  heard  of,  nor  any  one  probably  in  the  town. 
The  whole  adventure  was  curious,  and  ought  to  be  mentioned,  as 
affording  a  favourable  view  of  Ottoman  magnanimity. 

The  pashaw  was  so  well  pleased  with  the  manner  in  which  I  had 
acted  in  the  affkir  of  the  despatches,  that  be  sent  me  notice  in  the  morning 
that  horses  and  a  guard  were  at  ray  command  so  long  as  I  chose  to  re- 
mainin  the  fortress,  and  that  he  had  forwarded  the  packet  unbroken  to 
the  Russian  commander ;  he  even  permitted  me,  in  the  course  of  the 
.afternoon,  to  visit  the  Russian  encampment  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Danube,  which  I  accordingly  did,  9n,4  reiiun)«d  ucrnss  the  river  in  th« 
jpytjninfi. 


'^il 


LORD    BYRON. 


285 


ttempted 
city  with 
bjectH,  as 
at  Geiioat 
.    And  it 
the  town 
had  fallen 
riiis  man 
sent  over 
s  release, 
isoners  in 
be  placed 
Bd.  These 
►f  which  a 
!^usuflf,  ex- 
iceforward 
humanity, 
illy  praise- 
1  a  Turkish 
3assengers, 
ilso  placed 
rticular  re- 
)tion  of  the 
altitude  of 
be  omitted 
md  receive 
one  which 

formed  that  he 
e,  and  accord- 
d  serve  for  the 
letit  on  an  agent 
y  in  the  town, 
mentioned,  as 

in  which  I  had 
eintlie  morning 
IS  1  chose  to  re- 
ket  unbroken  to 
e  course  of  the 
ther  side  of  the 

the  river  in  tbe 


might  contribute  to  their  comfort.  He  was  seated 
on  a  cushion  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  the 
women  and  children  were  standing  before  him  with 
their  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  him ;  and,  on  his  right 
hand  was  his  interpreter,  who  was  extracting  from 
the  women  a  narrative  of  their  sufferings.  One  of 
them,  apparently  about  thirty  years  of  age,  possess- 
ing great  vivacity,  and  whose  manners  and  dress, 
though  she  was  then  dirty  and  disfigured,  indicated 
that  she  was  superior  in  rank  and  condition  to  her 
companions,  was  spokeswoman  for  the  whole.  I 
admired  the  good  order  the  others  preserved,  never 
interfering  with  the  explanation,  or  interrupting  the 
single  speaker.  I  also  admired  the  rapid  manner  in 
which  the  interpreter  explained  every  thing  they 
said,  so  as  to  make  it  almost  appear  that  there  was 
but  one  speaker.  After  a  short  time  it  was  evident 
that  what  Lord  Byron  was  hearing  affected  his  feel- 
ings; his  countenance  changed,  his  colour  went  and 
came,  and  I  thought  he  was  ready  to  weep.  But  he 
had,  on  sdl  occasions,  a  ready  and  peculiar  knack  in 
turning  conversation  from  any  disagreeable  or  un- 
pleasant subject ;  and  he  had  recourse  to  this  expe- 
dient. He  rose  up  suddenly,  and,  turning  round  on  his 
heel  as  was  his  wont,  he  said  something  to  his  inter- 
preter, who  immediately  repeated  it  to  the  women. 
All  eyes  were  immediately  fixed  on  me ;  and  one 
of  the  party,  a  young  and  beautiful  woman,  spoke 
very  warmly.  Lord  Byron  seemed  satisfied,  and 
said  they  might  retire.  The  women  all  slipped  off 
their  shoes  in  an  instant,  and,  going  up  to  his  Lord- 
ship, each  in  succession,  accompanied  by  their  chil- 
dren, kissed  his  hand  fervently,  invoked,  in  the 
Turkish  manner,  a  blessing,  both  on  his  hand  and 
heart,  and  then  quitted  the  room.  This  was  too 
much  for  Lord  Byron,  and  he  turned  his  face  away 
to  conceal  his  emotion.*' 

A  vessel  was  then  hired,  and  the  whole  of  them, 
to  the  number  of  twenty-four,  were  sent  to  Prevesa, 


lit, 


imfmmmmtt 


n 


t 


^1 


286 


THE   LIFE   OF 


provided  with  every  requisite  for  their  comfort 
during  the  passage.  These  instances  of  humanity 
excited  a  sympathy  among  the  Turks.  The  Go- 
vernor of  Prevesa  thanked  his  Lordship,  and  assured 
him  that  he  would  take  care  that  equal  attention 
should  be  in  future  paid  to  the  Greeks,  who  might 
fall  into  his  hands. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


W 

pi ' 
Il 
si 

ill 


'% ; 


m 


!    ) 


Broeeedings  at  Missolonghi — Byron^a  Suliote  Brigade — Their  Iruttb' 
ordination^Difference  with  Colonel  Stanhope— Imbecility  of  the  Plana 
for  the  Independence  of  Greece. 

The  arrival  of  Lord  Byron  at  Missolonghi  was 
not  only  hailed  as  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  Greece, 
but  as  the  beginning  of  a  new  cycle  in  his  own  ex- 
traordinary life.  His  natural  indolence  disappeared ; 
the  Sardanapalian  sloth  was  thrown  off,  and  he  took 
a  station  in  the  van  of  her  efforts  that  bespoke  heroic 
achievement. 

After  paying  the  fleet,  which  indeed  had  only  come 
out  in  the  expectation  of  receiving  the  arrears  from  the 
loan  he  had  promised  to  Mavrocordato,  he  resolved 
to  form  a  brigade  of  Suliotes.  Five  hundred  of  the 
remains  of  Marco  Botzaris*s  gallant  followers  were 
accordingly  taken  into  his  pay .  **  He  burns  with 
military  ardour  and  chivalry,''  says  Colonel  Stan- 
hope, **  and  will  proceed  with  the  expedition  to  Le- 
panto."  But  the  expedition  was  delayed  by  causes 
which  ought  to  have  been  foreseen. 

The  Suliotes,  conceiving  that  in  his  Lordship  they 
had  found  a  patron  whose  wealth  and  generositjr 
were  equally  boundless,  refused  to  quit  Missolonghi 
till  their  arrears  were  paid.  Savage  in  the  field,  and 
untameable  in  the  city,  they  became  insubordinate 
and  mercenary ;  nor  was  their  conduct  without  ex- 


LORD   BYRON. 


287 


comfort 
lumanity 
The  Go- 
d  assured 
attention 
rho  might 


-Their  Inmh' 
ty  of  tht  Fiona 

onghi  was 
of  Greece, 
is  own  ex- 
sappeared; 
ind  he  took 
)oke  heroic 

only  come 
irs  from  the 
le  resolved 
dred  of  the 
)wer8  were 
burns  with 
lonel  Stan- 
tion  to  Le- 
d  by  causes 

)rdship  they 
generosit^r 
Vlissolonghi 
he  field,  and 
subordinate 
without  ex- 


cuse* They  had  long  defended  the  town  with  un- 
tlred  bravery  ;  their  families  had  been  driven  into  it 
in  the  most  destitute  condition ;  and  all  the  hopes 
that  had  led  them  to  take  up  arms  were  still  distant 
and  prospective.  Besides,  Mavrocordato,  unlike  the 
other  Grecian  captains,  having  no  troops  of  his  own, 
affected  to  regard  these  mercenaries  as  allies,  and 
was  indulgent  to  their  excesses.  The  town  was 
overawed  by  their  turbulence ;  conflicts  took  place 
in  the  street ;  riot  and  controversy  every  where  pre- 
vailed, and  blood  was  shed. 

Lord  Byron^s  undisciplined  spirit  could  ill  brook 
'delay ;  he  partook  of  the  general  vehemence,  and  lost 
the  power  of  discerning  the  comparative  importance 
both  of  measures  and  things.  He  was  out  of  his 
element ;  confusion  thickened  around  him ;  his  irri- 
tability grew  passion ;  and  there  was  the  rush  and 
haste,  the  oblivion  and  alarm  of  fatality  in  all  he 
undertook  and  suggested. 

One  day,  a  party  of  German  adventurers  reached 
the  fortress  so  demoralized  by  hardships,  that  few 
of  them  were  fit  for  service.  It  was  intended  to 
form  a  corps  of  artillery,  and  these  men  were  des- 
tined for  that  branch  of  the  service :  but  their  condi- 
tion was  such,  that  Stanhope  doubted  the  practica- 
bility of  carrying  the  measure  into  effect  at  that 
time.  He  had  promised  to  contribute  a  hundred 
pounds  to  their  equipment.  Byron  attributed  the 
Coloners  objections  to  reluctance  to  pay  the  money; 
and  threatened  him  if  it  were  refused,  with  a  pu- 
nishment, new  in  Grecian  war — to  libel  him  in  the 
Greek  Chronicle !  a  newspaper  which  Stanhope  had 
recently  established. 

It  is,  however,  not  easy  to  give  a  correct  view  of 
the  state  of  affairs  at  that  epoch  in  Missolonghi. 
All  parties  seem  to  have  been  deplorably  incompe- 
tent to  understand  the  circumstances  in  which  they 
were  placed ;— the  condition  of  the  Greeks,  and  that 
their  exigencies  required  only  physical  and  military 


-1 


imfumim 


r 


288 


THE   LTFE   or 


means.  They  talked  of  newspapers  and  types,*  and 
libels,  as  if  the  moral  instrumenib  of  civil  exhorta- 
tion were  adequate  to  wrench  the  independence  of 
Greece  from  the  bloody  grasp  of  the  Ottoman.    No 


<> 


ii''  : 


( I 


-i  I 


*It  is  amnsing  to  see  what  a  piece  of  insane  work  was  made  about 
the  printing  press. 

"  The  press  will  be  at  work  next  Monday.  Its  first  production  will 
be  a  prospectus.  On  the  first  day  of  the  year  1824,  the  Greek  Chronicle 
will  be  issued. — It  will  be  printed  in  Greek  and  Italian ;  it  will  come  oat 
twice  a-week.  Pray  endeavour  to  assist  its  circulation  in  England.(!)  I 
hope  to  establish  presses  i  n  other  parts." —  1 8th  December,  1 823.    Plage  46. 

"  Your  agent  has  now  been  at  Missolonghi  one  week ;  daring  tlmt  pe> 
riod  a  fVee  press  has  been  established." — ^20th  December,  1823.    Page  50. 

*'  The  press  is  not  yet  in  motion ;  I  will  explain  to  you  the  caose." — 
23d  December,  1823.    Page  54. 

"  The  Greek  Chronicle  published,  with  a  passage  flrom  Bentham  (Ml 
Jhe  liberty  of  the  press." — ^2d  January,  1824.    Page  63. 

"  The  English  Committee  has  sent  hither  several  presses,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  spreading  the  light  of  the  nineteenth  century."— 7tb  January, 
1824.    Page  74. 

"  The  press  is  exciting  general  interest — all  our  party  are  working  for 
it ;  some  translate,  and  some  write  original  articles.  As  yet  we  have 
not  a  compositor  to  arrange  our  Italian  types." — ^7th  January,  1824. 
Page  62. 

''  I  have  no  one  to  work  the  lithographic  press.*^— 7th  February,  1824. 
Page  108. 

'*  I  am  going'^o  take  the  three  presses  round  to  the  Morea."— llth  Fe- 
bruary, 1824.    Page  112. 

These  extracts  ml\  help  the  reader  to  form  some  idea  of  the  inordinate 
attention  which  was  paid  to  "the  press,"  as  an  enoink  of  war  against 
the  Turks ;  but  the  following  extract  is  more  immediately  apidicable  to 
my  object  in  noticing  the  thing  so  contemptuously : 

" '  Your  Lordship  stated,  yesterday  evening,  that  you  had  said  to  Prince 
Mavrocordato,  that '  were  you  in  his  place,  you  would  have  placed  the 
press  under  a  censor ;'  and  that  he  replied, '  No,  the  liberty  of  the  press  is 

Eiiaranteed  by  the  constitution.'  Now,  I  wish  to  know  whether  your 
ordship  was  serioun  when  yo>i  made  the  observation,  or  whether  you 
only  said  so  to  provoke  me.  If  your  Lordship  was  serious,  I  shall  con- 
sider it  my  duty  to  communicate  this  affair  to  the  Committee  in  England, 
in  order  to  show  them  how  difiicuU  a  task  I  have  to  fUlfU,  in  promoting 
the  liberties  of  Greece,  if  your  Lordship  is  to  throw  the  weight  of  your 
vast  talents  into  the  opposite  scale  in  a  question  of  such  vital  im- 
portance.' 

"  After  Lord  Byron  had  read  this  paper,  he  said  that  he  was  an  ardent 
friend  of  publicity  and  the  press ;  but  he  feared  it  was  not  applicable  to 
this  Society  in  its  present  combustible  state.  I  answered,  that  I  thought 
it  applicable  to  all  countries,  and  essentially  here  in  order  to  put  an  end 
to  the  state  of  anarciiy  which  at  present  prevailed.  Lord  Byron  feared 
libels  and  licentiousness.  I  said,  that  the  object  of  a  fVee  press  was  to 
check  public  licentiousness,  and  to  expose  libellers  to  odium,"  dec.  Ac. 
—94th  January,  1824.    Page  91. 

These  extracts  are  made  fVom  the  Hon.  Colonel  Stanhope's  Letters  on 


LORD    BYRON. 


289 


rpes,*  and 
I  exhorta- 
[idence  of 
man.    No 

m  made  about 

jroduction  will 
Jreek  Chronido 
it  will  come  out 

™  England.^.)  1 
1823.  Page4«. 
daring  that  pe- 
1823.  Page  50. 
ott  the  cause."— 

torn  Bentliam  on 

sses,  for  the  pw- 
f.»__7ih  January, 

y  are  worWng  tor 
Asyetwetaje 

ih  January,  1824. 

ih  February,  1824. 

Morea.''-lUbFe- 

»  of  the  inordinate 
■NK  of  vmr  agamst 
[iately  applicable  to 

ihad  said  to  Prince 
iild  have  placed  the 
brnyofthepressis 
bow  whether  your 
on,  or  whether  you 
erion8,Ishallcon- 
nmiltee  in  England, 

,  fulfil,  in  promoting 
Se  weight  of  your 

of  such  vital  Im- 

Lt  he  was  an  ardent 
las  not  applicable  to 
^ered,thaiIlhought 
,  order  to  put  an  end 
Lord  Byron  feared 
a  free  press  was  to 
,  to  odium,"  &c-  **• 

Unhope's  Letters  on 


wonder  that  Byron,  accustomed  to  the  management 
only  of  his  own  fancies,  was  fluttered  amid  the  con- 
flicts of  such  riot  and  controversy. 

His  situation  at  this  period  was  indeed  calculated 
to  inspire  pity.  Had  he  survived,  it  might,  instead  of 
awakening  the  derision  of  history,  have  supplied  to 
himself  materials  for  another  canto  of  Don  Juan. 
I  shall  select  one  instance  of  his  afflictions. 

The  captain  of  a  British  gun-brig  came  to  Misso- 
longhi  to  demand  an  equivalent  for  an  Ionian  boat, 
which  had  been  taken  in  the  act  of  going  out  of  the 
Gulf  of  Lepanto,  with  provisions  and  arms.  The 
Greek  fleet  at  that  time  blockading  the  port  consisted 
of  five  brigs,  and  the  Turks  had  fourteen  vessels  of  war 
in  the  gulf.  The  captain  maintained  that  the  British 
government  recognised  no  blockade  virhich  was  not 
efficient,  and  that  the  efficiency  depended  on  the 
numerical  superiority  of  cannon.  On  this  principle 
he  demanded  restitution  of  the  property.  Mavro- 
cordato  offered  to  submit  the  case  to  the  decision  of 
the  British  government,  but  the  captain  would  only 
give  him  four  hours  to  consider.  The  indemnifica- 
tion was  granted. 

Lord  Byron  conducted  the  business  in  behalf  of 
the  captain.  In  the  evening,  conversing  with  Stan- 
hope on  the  subject,  the  colonel  said  the  affair  was 
conducted  in  a  bullying  manner.  His  Lordship 
started  into  a  passion  and  contended  that  law,  jus- 
tice, and  equity  had  nothing  to  do  with  politics. 

"That  may  be,"  replied  Stanhope,  "but  I  will 
never  lend  myself  to  injustice." 

His  Lordship  then  began  to  attack  Jeremy  Ben- 
tham.  The  colonel  complained  of  such  illiberality, 
as  to  make  personal  attacks  on  that  gentleman  before 
a  friend  who  held  him  in  high  estimation. 

the  Greek  Revolution.  It  is  itnpossible  to  read  them  without  being  ini> 
pressed  with  the  benevolent  intentions  of  the  Colonel.  But,  O  Cer- 
vantes !  truly  thou  did&t  lose  a  hand  at  Lepanto,  when  Bynm  died  in  the 
expedition  against  it. 

Bb 


I       - 

1    • 


i^- 


Iji' 


'*> 


t 


1 

I,; 


I 


290 


THE   LIFE   OF 


"  I  only  attack  his  public  principles,"  replied  By- 
ron, "  which  are  mere  theories,  but  dangerous, — 
injurious  to  Spain,  and  calculated  to  do  great  mis- 
chief in  Greece." 

Stanhope  vindicated  Bentham,  and  said,  "  He  pos- 
sesses a  truly  British  heart ;  but  your  Lordship,  after 
professing  liberal  principles  from  boyhood,  have, 
when  called  upon  to  act,  proved  yourself  a  Turk." 

**  What  proofs  have  you  of  this  1" 

"  Your  conduct  in  endeavouring  to  crush  the  press 
by  declaiming  against  it  to  Mavrocordato,  and  your 
general  abuse  of  liberal  principles." 

"  If  I  had  held  up  my  finger,"  retorted  his  Lord- 
ship, **  I  could  have  crushed  the  press." 

"  With  all  this  power,"  said  Stanhope,  "  which  by 
the  way  you  never  possessed,  you  went  to  the  prince, 
and  poisoned  his  ear." 

Lord  Byron  then  disclaimed  against  the  liberals. 
"  What  liberals  1"  cried  Stanhope.  "  Did  you  bor- 
row your  notions  of  freemen  from  the  Italians  1" 

"  No  :  from  the  Hunts,  Cartvvrights,  and  such." 

"  And  yet  your  Lordship  presented  Cartwright's 
Reform  Bill,  and  aided  Hunt  by  praising  his  poetry 
and  giving  him  the  sale  of  your  works." 

"  You  are  worse  than  Wilson,"  exclaimed  Byron, 
"  and  should  quit  the  army." 

"I  am  a  mere  soldier,"  replied  Stanhope,  "but 
never  will  I  abandon  my  principles.  Our  principles 
are  diametrically  opposite,  so  let  us  avoid  the  sub- 
ject. If  Lord  Byron  acts  up  to  his  professions,  he 
will  be  the  greatest,  if  not,  the  meanest  of  mankind." 

"  My  character,"  said  his  Lordship,  "  I  hope,  does 
not  depend  on  your  assertions." 

"  No :  your  genius  has  immortalized  you.  The 
worst  will  not  deprive  you  of  fame." 

Lord  Byron  then  rejoined,  **  Well ;  you  shall  see : 
judge  of  me  by  my  acts."  And,  bidding  the  colonel 
good  night,  who  took  up  the  light  to  conduct  him  to  the 
paflflagCi  he  added, "  What !  hold  up  a  light  to  a  Turk !" 


LORD   BYRON. 


291 


replied  By- 
ingerous, — 
great  mis- 

, "  He  pofl. 
•dship,  after 
lood,  have, 
r  a  Turk." 

Bh  the  press 
0,  and  your 

d  his  Lord- 

, «  which  by 
o  the  prince, 

the  liberals. 
)id  you  bor- 
Italiansl" 
and  such." 
Cartwright's 
ig  his  poetry 

• 

limed  Byron, 

inhope,  "but 
►ur  principles 
roid  the  sub- 
'ofessions,  he 
of  mankind." 
♦  I  hope,  does 

d  you.    The 

rou  shall  see : 
ig  the  colonel 
lucthimtothe 
httoaTurk!" 


Such  were  the  Franklins,  the  Washingtons,  and 
the  Hamiltons  who  undercook  the  regeneration  of 
Greece. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


Lord  Byron  appointed  to  the  Command  of  three  thousand  Men  to  besiege 
Lepanto — The  Siege  abandoned  for  a  Blockade — Advanced  Guard 
ordered  to  proceed— Lord  Byron's  first  Illness— A  Riot — He  is  urged 
to  leave  Greece — The  Expedition  against  Lepanto  abandoned — Byron 
dejected — A  wild  diplomatic  Scheme. 

Three  days  after  the  conversation  related  in  the 
preceding  chapter,  Byron  was  officially  placed  in  the 
command  of  about  three  thousand  men,  destined  for 
the  attack  on  Lepanto;  but  the  Suliotes  remained 
refractory,  and  refused  to  quit  their  quarters;  his 
Lordship,  however,  employed  an  argument  which 
proved  effectual.  He  told  them  that  if  they  did  not 
obey  his  commands,  he  would  discharge  them  from 
his  service. 

But  the  impediments  were  not  to  be  surmounted ; 
in  less  than  a  week  it  was  formally  reported  to  Byron 
that  M issolonghi  could  not  furnish  the  means  of  un- 
dertaking the  siege  of  Lepanto,  upon  which  his  Lord- 
ship proposed  that  Lepanto  should  be  only  blockaded 
by  two  thousand  men.  Before  any  actual  step  was, 
however,  taken,  two  spies  came  in  with  a  report  that 
the  Albanians  in  garrison  at  Lepanto  had  seized  the 
citadel,  and  were  determined  to  surrender  it  to  his 
Lordship.  Still  the  expedition  lingered ;  at  last,  on 
the  14th  of  February,  six  weeks  after  Byron's  arrival 
at  Missolonghi,  it  was  determined  that  an  advanced 
guard  of  three  hundred  soldiers,  under  the  command 
of  Count  Gamba,  should  march  for  Lepanto,  and  that 
Lord  Byron,  with  the  main  body,  should  follow.  The 


i'l 


'4 


)  .-BlI^lOlii 


I 


202 


THE   LIFE   OF 


Suliotes  were,  however,  still  exorbitant,  calling  for 
fresh  contributions  for  themselves  and  their  families. 
His  troubles  were  increasing,  and  every  new  rush 
of  the  angry  tide  rose  nearer  and  nearer  his  heart ; 
still  his  fortitude  enabled  him  to  preserve  an  out- 
ward show  of  equanimity.  But,  on  the  very  day 
after  the  determination  had  been  adopted,  to  send 
forward  the  advanced  guard,  his  constitution  gave 
way. 

He  was  sitting  in  Colonel  Stanhope's  room,  talk- 
ing jestingly,  according  to  his  wonted  manner,  with 
Captain  Parry,  when  his  eyes  and  forehead  occasion- 
ally discovered  that  he  was  agitated  by  strong  feel- 
ings. On  a  sudden  he  complained  of  weakness  in 
one  of  his  legs ;  he  rose,  but  finding  himself  unable 
to  walk,  called  for  assistance ;  he  then  fell  into  a 
violent  nervous  convulsion,  and  was  placed  upon  a 
bed :  while  the  fit  lasted,  his  face  was  hideously  dis- 
torted; but  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  the  con- 
vulsion ceased,  and  he  began  to  recover  his  senses : 
his  speech  returned,  and  he  soon  rose,  apparently 
well.  During  the  struggle  his  strength  was  preter 
naturally  augmented,  and  when  it  was  over,  he  be- 
haved with  his  usual  firmness.  "  I  conceive,"  says 
Colonel  Stanhope,  "  that  this  fit  was  occasioned  by 
over-excitement.  The  mind  of  Byron  is  like  a  vol- 
cano ;  it  is  full  of  fire,  wrath,  and  combustibles,  and 
when  this  matter  comes  to  be  strongly  agitated,  the 
explosion  is  dreadful.  With  respect  to  the  causes 
which  produced  this  excess  of  feeling,  they  are  be- 
yond my  reach,  except  one  great  cause,  the  provoking 
conduct  of  the  Suliotes." 

A  few  days  after  this  distressing  incident,  a  new 
occurrence  arose,  which  materially  disturbed  the 
tranquillity  of  Byron.  A  Suliote,  accompanied  by 
the  son,  a  little  boy,  of  Marco  Botzaris,  with  another 
man,  walked  into  the  Seraglio,  a  kind  of  citadel, 
which  had  been  used  as  a  bp.rrack  for  the  Suliotes, 
and  out  of  which  they  had  been  ejected  with  diffi* 


LORD   BYRON. 


293 


ling  for 
amilies* 
ew  rush 
[8  heart ; 

an  out- 
cry day 

to  send 
ion  gave 

om,  talk- 
ner,  with 
jccasion- 
■ong  feel- 
akness  in 
;lf  unable 
ell  into  a 
ed  upon  a 
ously  dis- 
s  the  con- 
is  senses : 
ipparently 
ras  preter 
rer,  he  be- 
live,"  says 
isioned  by 
like  a  vol- 
tibles,  and 
:itated,  the 
he  causes 
ey  are  be- 
)rovoking 

ent,  a  new 
urbed  the 
ipanied  by 
th  another 
of  citadel* 
I  Suliotes, 
with  diffi* 


culty,  when  it  was  required  for  the  reception  of  stores 
and  the  estaulishment  of  a  laboratory.  The  sentinel 
ordered  them  back«  but  the  Suliote  advanced.  The 
sergeant  of  the  guard,  a  German,  pushed  him  back. 
The  Suliote  struck  the  sergeant;  they  closed  and 
struggled.  The  Suliote  drew  his  pistol ;  the  German 
wrenched  it  from  him,  and  emptied  the  pan.  At  this 
moment  a  Swedish  adventurer,  Captain  Sass,  seeing 
the  quarrel,  ordered  the  Suliote  to  be  taken  to  the 
guard-room.  The  Suliote  would  have  departed,^  but 
the  German  still  held  him.  The  Swede  drew  his 
sabre;  the  Suliote  his  other  pistol.  The  Swede 
struck  him  with  the  flat  of  his  sword ;  the  Suliote 
unsheathed  his  ataghan,  and  nearly  cut  off  the  left 
arm  of  his  antagonist,  and  then  shot  him  through  the 
head.  The  other  Suliotes  would  not  deliver  up  their 
comrade,  for  he  was  celebrated  among  them  for  dis- 
tinguished bravery.  The  workmen  in  the  laboratory 
refused  to  work :  they  required  to  be  sent  home  to 
England,  declaring,  they  had  come  out  to  labour 
peaceably,  and  not  to  he  exposed  to  assassination. 
These  untoward  occurrences  deeply  vexed  Byron, 
and  there  was  no  mind  of  sufficient  energy  with  him 
to  control  the  increasing  disorders.  But,  though 
convinced,  as  indeed  he  had  been  persuaded  from 
the  beginning  in  his  own  mind,  that  he  could  not 
render  any  assistance  to  the  cause  beyond  miti- 
gating the  ferocious  spirit  in  which  the  war  was 
conducted,  his  pride  and  honour  would  not  allow  him 
to  quit  Greece. 

In  a  letter  written  soon  after  his  flrst  attack,  he 
says,  "  I  am  a  good  deal  better,  though  of  course 
weakly.  The  leeches  took  too  much  blood  from 
my  temples  the  day  after,  and  there  was  some  diffi- 
culty in  stopping  it ;  but  I  have  been  up  daily,  and 
out  in  boats  or  on  horseback.  To-day  I  have  taken 
a  warm  bath,  and  live  as  temperately  as  can  well  be, 
without  any  liquid  but  water,  and  without  any  ani- 
mal food  i**  then  adverting  to  the  turbulences  of  the 
.,  Bb2 


r 

T 


,-yr* 


■51 


I 


11!      , 


15     i 


294 


THE   LIFE    OF 


Suliotes,  he  adds,  **  but  I  still  hope  better  things,  and 
will  stand  by  the  cause  as  long  as  my  health  and 
circumstances  will  permit  me  to  be  supposed  use- 
ful." Subsequently,  when  pressed  to  leave  the 
marshy  and  deleterious  air  of  Missolonghi,  he  re* 
plied,  still  more  forcibly,  **  I  cannot  quit  Greece 
while  there  is  a  chance  of  my  being  of  (even  sup- 
posed) utility.  There  is  a  stake  worth  millions  such 
as  I  am,  and  while  I  can  stand  at  all  I  must  stand  by 
the  cause.  While  I  say  this,  I  am  aware  of  the  dif- 
ficulties, and  dissensions,  and  defects  of  the  Greeks 
themselves ;  but  allowance  must  be  made  for  them 
by  all  reasonable  people." 

After  this  attack  of  epilepsy  Lord  Byron  became 
disinclined  to  pursue  his  scheme  against  Lepanto. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  said  that  in  his  circumstances  it 
was  impracticable;  for  although  the  Suliotes  re- 
pented of  their  insubordination,  they  yet  had  an  ob- 
jection to  the  service,  and  said  "  they  would  not 
fight  against  stone  walls."  All  thought  of  the  expe- 
dition was  in  consequence  abandoned,  and  the  des- 
tinies of  poor  Byron  were  hastening  to  their  consum- 
mation.   He  began  to  complain ! 

In  speaking  to  Parry  one  day  of  the  Greek 
Committee  in  London,  hr  said,  "  I  have  been  grossly 
ill-treated  by  the  Committee.  In  Italy  Mr.  Blaquiere, 
their  agent,  informed  me  that  every  requisite  supply 
would  be  forwarded  with  all  despatch.  I  was  dis- 
posed to  come  to  Greece,  but  I  hastened  my  depar- 
ture in  consequence  of  earnest  solicitations.  No 
time  was  to  be  lost,  I  was  told,  and  Mr.  Blaquiere, 
instead  of  waiting  on  me  at  his  return  from  Greece, 
left  a  paltry  note,  which  gave  me  no  information 
whatever.  If  ever  I  meet  with  him,  I  shall  not  fail 
to  mention  my  surprise  at  his  conduct ;  but  it  has 
been  all  of  a  piece.  I  wish  the  acting  Committee 
had  had  some  of  the  trouble  which  has  fallen  on  me 
since  my  arrival  here :  they  would  have  been  more 
prompt  in  their  proceedings,  and  would  have  known 


\ 


¥ 


LORD  BYRON. 


295 


ings,  and 
ealth  and 
)8ed  use- 
ieave  the 
tii,  he  re* 
it  Greece 
[even  sup- 
lions  such 
It  stand  by 
of  the  dif- 
he  Greeks 
le  for  them 

•on  became 
it  Lepanto. 
Tistances  it 
Suliotes  re- 
t  had  an  ob- 
^  would  not 
of  the  expe- 
ind  the  des- 
leir  consum- 

•  the  Greek 
been  grossly 
Ir.Blaquiere, 

uisite  supply 
.  I  was  dis- 
Bd  my  depar- 
tations.  No 
Ir.Blaquiere, 

rom  Greece, 
information 

shall  not  fail 
ct;  but  it  has 
ig  Committee 
s  fallen  on  me 
ive  been  more 
d  have  known 


better  what  the  country  stood  in  need  of.  They 
would  not  have  delayed  the  supplies  a  day,  nor  have 
sent  out  German  officers,  poor  fellows,  to  starve  at 
Missolonghi,  but  for  my  assistance.  I  am  a  plain 
man,  and  cannot  comprehend  the  use  of  printing- 
presses  to  a  people  who  do  not  read.  Here  the  Com- 
mittee have  sent  supplies  of  maps.  I  suppose  that  I 
may  teach  the  young  mountaineers  geography.  Here 
are  bugle-horns  without  buglemen,  and  it  is  a  chance 
if  we  can  find  any  body  in  Greece  to  blow  them. 
Books  are  sent  to  people  who  want  guns ;  they  ask 
for  swords,  and  the  Committee  give  them  the  lever 
of  a  printing-press. 

**  My  future  intentions,^'  continued  his  Lordship, 
"  as  to  Greece,  may  be  explained  in  a  few  words.  I 
will  remain  here  until  she  is  secure  against  the 
Turks,  or  till  she  has  fallen  under  their  power.  All 
my  income  shall  be  spent  in  her  service ;  but,  unless 
driven  by  some  great  necessity,  I  will  not  touch  a 
farthing  of  the  sum  intended  for  my  sister^s  children. 
Whatever  I  can  accomplish  with  my  income,  and 
my  personal  exertions,  shall  be  cheerfully  done. 
When  Greece  is  secure  against  external  enemies,  I 
will  leave  the  Greeks  to  settle  their  government  as 
they  like.  One  service  more,  and  an  eminent  ser- 
vice it  will  be,  I  think  I  may  perform  for  them.  You, 
Parry,  shall  have  a  schooner  built  for  me,  or  I  will 
buy  a  vessel ;  the  Greeks  shall  invest  me  with  the 
character  of  their  ambassador,  or  agent :  I  will  go 
to  the  United  States,  and  procure  that  free  and 
enlightened  government  to  set  the  example  of  recog- 
nising the  federation  of  Greece  as  an  independent 
state.  This  done,  England  must  follow  the  example, 
and  then  the  fate  of  Greece  will  be  permanently  fixed, 
and  she  will  enter  into  all  her  rights  as  a  member 
of  the  great  commonwealth  of  Christian  Europe.*' 

This  intention  will,  to  all  who  have  ever  looked  at 
the  effects  of  fortune  on  individuals,  sufficiently 
show  that  Byron's  part  in  the  world  was  nearly 


if 


■  ii:ii 


./'■'■'^ 


^PWM* 


206 


THE   LIFE   OF 


* 


done.  Had  he  lived,  and  recovered  health,  it  might 
have  proved  that  he  was  then  only  in  another  luna- 
tion :  his  first  was  when  he  passed  from  poesv  to 
heroism.  But  as  it  was,  it  has  only  served  to  show 
that  his  mind  had  suffered  by  the  decadency  of  his 
circumstances,  and  how  much  the  idea  of  self-ex- 
altation weakly  entered  into  all  his  plans.  The 
business  was  secondary  to  the  style  in  which  it 
should  be  performed.  Buildinn^  a  vessel !  why  think 
of  the  conveyance  at  all  ?  as  if  the  means  of  going 
to  America  were  so  scarce  that  there  might  be  diffi- 
culty in  finding  them.  But  his  mind  was  passing 
from  him.  The  intention  was  unsound — a  fantasy — a 
dream  of  bravery  in  old  age — begotten  of  the  erro- 
neous supposition  that  the  cabinets  of  Christendom 
would  remain  unconcerned  spectators  of  the  triumph 
of  the  Greeks,  or  even  of  any  very  long  procrasti- 
nation of  their  struggle. 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 


m 


The  last  Illness  and  Death  of  Lord  Byron—His  last  Poem. 

Although  in  common  parlance  it  may  be  said,  that 
after  the  attack  of  epilepsy  Lord  Byron's  general 
health  did  not  appear  to  have  been  essentially  im- 
paired, the  appearance  was  fallacious ;  his  constitu- 
tion had  received  a  vital  shock,  and  the  exciting 
causes,  vexation  and  confusion,  continued  to  exas- 
perate his  irritation. 

On  the  1st  of  March  he  complained  of  frequent 
vertigos,  which  made  him  feel  as  though  he  were  in- 
toxicated ;  but  no  effectual  means  were  taken  to  re- 
move these  portentous  symptoms ;  and  he  regu- 
larly enjoyed  his  daily  exercise,  sometimes  in 
boats,  but  oftener  on  horseback.     His  physician 


H  ] 


\\ 


LORD   BYRON. 


297 


it  might 
ler  Uma- 
poesy  to 

to  snow 
iy  of  his 
f  self-ex- 
118.  The 
which  it 
irby  think 

of  going 
it  be  difft- 
s  passing 
antasy— a 

the  erro- 
ristendom 
\e  triumph 

procrasti- 


st  Poem. 

ye  said,  that 
s  general 
ntially  im- 
is  constitu- 
he  excithig 
ed  to  exas- 

of  frequent 
he  were  in- 
taken  to  re- 
id  he  regu- 
metimes  in 
physician 


thought  him  convalescent;  his  mind,  however, 
was  in  constant  excitement;  it  rested  not  even 
during  sleep. 

On  the  9th  of  April,  while  sailing,  he  was  over* 
taken  by  the  rain,  and  got  very  wet :  on  his  return 
home,  he  changed  the  whole  of  his  dress ;  but  he 
had  bieen  too  long  in  his  wet  clothes,  and  the  sta- 
mina of  his  constitution  being  shaken  could  not 
withstand  the  effects.  In  little  more  than  two  hours 
he  was  seized  with  rigors,  fever,  and  rheumatic 
pains.  During  the  night,  however,  he  slept  in  his 
accustomed  manner,  but  in  the  morning  he  com- 
plained of  pains  and  headache ;  still  this  did  not  pre- 
vent him  from  going  out  on  horseback  in  the  after- 
noon— it  was  for  the  last  time. 

On  returning  home,  he  observed  to  one  of  the  ser- 
vants that  the  saddle  was  not  perfectly  dry,  from 
having  been  so  wet  the  day  before,  and  that  he 
thought  it  had  made  him  worse.  He  soon  after  be- 
came affected  with  almost  constant  shivering;  sudo- 
rific medicines  were  administered,  and  blood-letting 
proposed;  but  though  he  took  the  drugs,  he  ob- 
jected to  the  bleeding.  Another  physician  was  in 
consequence  called  in  to  see  if  the  rheumatic 
fever  could  be  appeased  without  the  loss  of  blood. 
This  doctor  approved  of  the  medicines  prescribed, 
and  was  not  opposed  to  the  opinion  that  bleeding 
was  necessary,  but  said  it  might  be  deferred  till 
the  next  day. 

On  the  11th  he  seemed  rather  better,  but  the 
medicines  had  produced  no  eifect. 

On  the  12th  he  was  confined  to  bed  with  fever, 
and  his  illness  appeared  to  be  increasing ;  he  was 
very  low,  and  complained  of  not  having  had  any 
sleep  during  the  night ;  but  the  medical  gentlemen 
saw  no  cause  for  alarm.  Dr.  Bruno,  his  own  physi- 
cian, again  proposed  bleeding;  the  stranger  still, 
however,  thought  it  might  be  deferred,  and  Byron 
himself  was  opposed  to  it.    '*  You  will  die,'  said 


!    i 


I. 


i .' 


i^'U 


i'l  ^ 


'i 


298 


THE    LIFE   OF 


ffi 


j,!' 


^illiiJii:;, 


k 


* 


i.   !  4 


Dr.  Bruno,  "  if  you  do  not  allow  yourself  to  be 
bled."  "  You  wish  to  get  the  reputation  of  curing 
my  disease,"  replied  his  Lordship,  "  that  is  why  you 
tell  me  it  is  so  serious ;  but  I  will  not  permit  you  to 
bleed  me." 

On  the  13th  he  sat  up  for  some  time,  after  a  sleep- 
less night,  and  still  complained  of  pain  in  his  bones 
and  head. 

On  the  14th  he  also  left  his  bed.  The  fever  was 
less,  but  the  debility  greater,  and  the  pain  in  his 
head  was  undiminished.  His  valet  became  alarmed, 
and,  doubtful  of  the  skill  of  the  doctors  around  him, 
entreated  permission  to  send  to  Zante  for  an  Eng- 
lish physician  of  greater  reputation.  His  Lordship 
desired  him  to  consult  the  others,  which  he  did, 
and  they  told  him  there  was  no  occasion  to  call  in 
any  person,  as  they  hoped  all  would  be  well  in  a 
few  days. 

His  Lordship  now  began  to  doubt  if  his  disease 
was  understood,  and  remarked  repeatedly  in  the 
course  of  this  day,  that  he  was  sure  the  doctors 
did  not  understand  it.  "  Then,  my  Lord,"  said 
Fletcher,  his  valet,  "have  other  advice."  "They 
tell  me,"  rejoined  his  Lordship,  "  that  it  is  only 
a  common  cold,  which  you  know  I  have  had  a 
thousand  times." 

"  I  am  sure  you  never  had  one  of  so  serious  a 
nature." 

"  I  think  I  never  had." 

Fletcher  then  went  again  to  the  physicians,  and 
repeated  his  solicitations  that  the  doctor  in  Zante 
might  be  sent  for ;  but  was  again  assured  that  his 
master  would  be  better  in  two  or  three  days.    ^^ 

At  length,  the  doctor  who  had  too  easily  consented 
to  the  postponement  of  the  bleeding,  seeing  the  prog- 
nostications of  Dr.  Bruno  more  and  more  confirmed, 
urged  the  necessity  of  bleeding,  and  of  no  longer 
delay.  This  convinced  Byron,  who  was  himself 
greatly  averse  to  the  operation,  that  they  did  not  un- 
derstand his  case. 


'.im: 


LORD   BYRON. 


200 


Blf  to  be 

of  curing 

why  you 

oit  you  to 

jr  a  sleep- 
his  bones 

fever  was 
ain  in  his 
le  alarmed, 
round  him, 
or  an  Eng- 
8  Lordship 
ch  he  did, 
[1  to  call  in 
I  well  in  a 

his  disease 
edly  in  the 
the  doctors 
[.ord,"  said 
j.'»  *«  They 
t  it  is  only 
lave  had  a 

JO  serious  a 


sicians,  and 
tor  in  Zante 
-ed  that  his 
days. 

ly  consented 
ling  the  prog- 
•e  confirmed, 
Df  no  longer 
was  himself 
y  did  not  un- 


On  the  15th  his  Lordship  felt  the  pains  abated, 
insomuch  that  he  was  able  to  transact  some  bu- 
siness. 

On  the  16th  he  wrote  a  letter,  but  towards  the 
evening  he  became  worse,  and  a  pound  of  blood  was 
taken  from  him.  Still  the  disease  was  making  pro- 
gress, but  Dr.  Bruno  did  not  yet  seem  much 
alarmed ;  on  the  contrary,  he  thought  were  more 
blood  removed  his  recovery  was  certain.  Fletcher 
immediately  told  his  master,  urging  him  to  comply 
with  the  doctor's  wishes.  "  I  fear,"  said  h's  Lord- 
ship, "  they  know  nothing  about  my  disorder,  but*' 
— and  he  stretched  out  his  arm — "here,  take  my 
arm  and  do  whatever  you  like." 

On  the  17th  his  countenance  was  changed ;  during 
the  ni|^ht  he  had  become  weaker,  and  a  slight  degree 
of  delirium,  in  which  he  raved  of  fighting,  had  come 
on.  In  the  course  of  the  day  he  was  bled  twice ;  in 
the  morning,  and  at  two  in  the  afternoon.  The  bleed- 
ing, on  both  occasions,  was  followed  by  fainting  fits. 
On  this  day  he  said  to  Fletcher,  "  1  cannot  sleep,  and 
you  well  know  I  have  not  been  able  to  sleep  for 
more  than  a  week.  I  know  that  a  man  can  only  be 
a  certain  time  without  sleep,  and  then  he  must  ffo 
mad,  without  any  one  being  able  to  save  him ;  and  I 
would  ten  times  sooner  shoot  myself  than  be  mad, 
for  I  am  not  afraid  of  dying — I  am  more  fit  to  die 
than  people  think." 

On  the  18th  his  Lordship  first  began  to  dread  that 
his  fate  was  inevitable.  "  I  fear,"  said  he  to  Fletcher, 
"  you  and  Tita  will  be  ill  by  sitting  up  constantly, 
night  and  day ;"  and  he  appeared  much  dissatisfied 
with  his  medical  treatment.  Fletcher  again  entreated 
permission  to  send  for  Dr.  Thomas,  at  Zante :  **  Do 
so,  but  be  quick,"  said  his  Lordship,  "  I  am  sorry  I 
did  not  let  you  do  so  before,  as  I  am  sure  they 
have  mistaken  my  disease;  write  yourself,  for  I 
know  they  would  not  like  to  see  other  doctors 
here.** 


,.i 


n\' 


r'i 

■If 


m 


r 


^v 


i\< 


t 


ffV.i 


l:iiii' 


;f    W    i 


:l 


;ti; 


800 


THE   LIFE   OP 


Not  a  moment  was  lost  in  executing  the  order, 
and  on  Fletcher  informing  the  doctors  what  he  had 
done,  they  said  it  was  right,  as  they  now  be^an  to 
be  afraid  themselves.  "Have  you  sent V  said  his 
Lordship,  when  Fletcher  returned  to  him — *'  I  have, 
my  Lora." 

**  You  have  done  well,  for  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  me/* 

From  that  time  his  Lordship  grew  every  hour 
weaker  and  weaker ;  and  he  had  occasional  flights 
of  delirium.  In  the  intervals  he  was,  however,  quite 
self-possessed,  and  said  to  Fletcher,  **  I  now  begin 
to  think  I  am  seriously  ill ;  and  in  case  I  should  be 
taken  off  suddenly,  I  wish  to  give  you  several  direc- 
tions, which  I  hope  you  will  be  particular  in  seeing 
executed.**  Fletcher  in  reply  expressed  his  hope  that 
he  would  live  many  years,  and  execute  them  him- 
self. '*  No,  it  is  now  nearly  over ;  I  must  tell  you  all 
without  losing  a  moment.** 

"  Shall  I  go,  my  Lord,  and  fetch  pen,  ink,  and 
paper.** 

"  Oh  my  God !  no,  you  will  lose  too  much  time, 
and  I  have  it  not  to  spare,  for  my  time  is  now  short. 
Now  pay  attention — ^you  will  be  provided  for.*' 

"  I  beseech  you,  my  Lord,  to  proceed  with  things 
of  more  consequence.'* 

His  Lordship  then  added, 

"Oh,  my  poor  dear  child! — my  dear  Ada! — My 
God !  could  I  have  but  seen  her — give  her  my  bless- 
ing— and  my  dear  sister  Augusta,  and  her  children— 
and  you  will  go  to  Lady  Byron  and  say — ^tell  her 
every  thing — you  are  friends  with  her." 

He  appeared  to  be  greatly  affected  at  this  moment 
His  voice  failed,  and  only  words  could  be  caught  at 
intervals ;  but  he  kept  muttering  something  very  se- 
riously for  some  time,  and  after  raising  his  voice,  said, 

"  Fletcher,  now  if  you  do  not  execute  every  order 
which  I  have  given  you,  I  will  torment  you  here- 
after, if  possible." 


LORD   BYRON. 


301 


he  order, 
[zX  he  had 
f  began  to 
*  said  his 
-♦»  1  have, 

:e  to  know 

ivery  hour 
inal  flights 
^ever,  quite 
now  begin 
1  should  be 
veral  direc- 
ir  in  seeing 
is  hope  that 
them  him- 
t  tell  you  all 

m,  ink,  and 

much  time, 
i  now  short, 
jd  for." 
with  things 


Ada!— My 
er  my  bless- 
cr  children- 
ay— tell  her 

this  moment 
be  caught  at 
ling  very  se- 
is  voice,  said, 
5  every  order 
it  you  here- 


This  little  speech  is  the  last  characteristic  ex- 
pression which  escapod  from  the  dying  man.  He 
Knew  Fletcher's  superstitious  tendency,  and  it  can- 
not be  questioned  thai  the  threat  was  tne  last  feeble 
flash  of  his  prankfulness.  The  faithful  valet  replied 
in  consternation  that  he  had  not  litiderstood  one 
word  of  what  his  Lordship  had  been  saying. 

"  Oh !  my  God !"  was  the  reply,  "  then  all  is  lost, 
for  it  is  now  too  late !  Can  it  be  possible  you  have 
not  understood  me !'' 

"  No,  my  Lord ;  but  I  pray  you  to  try  and  inform 
me  once  more." 

" How  can  II  it  is  now  too  late,  and  all  is  over." 

"  Not  our  will,  but  God's  be  done,"  said  Fletcher, 
and  his  Lordship  made  another  effort,  saying, 

"  Yes,  not  mine  be  done — but  I  will  try" — and  he 
made  several  attempts  to  speak,  but  could  only 
repeat  two  or  three  words  at  a  time ;  such  as, 

"  My  wife !  my  child — my  sister — you  know  all — 
you  must  say  all — you  know  my  wishes"— —The 
rest  was  unintelligible. 

A  consultation  with  three  other  doctors,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  two  physicians  in  regular  attendance, 
was  now  held;  and  they  appeared  to  think  the 
disease  was  changing  from  inflammatory  diathesis 
to  languid ;  and  ordered  stimulants  to  be  adminis- 
tered. Dr.  Bruno  opposed  this  with  the  greatest 
warmth;  and  pointed  out  that  the  symptoms  were 
those,  not  of  an  alteration  in  the  disease,  but  of  a 
fever  flying  to  the  brain,  which  was  violently  attack- 
ed by  it;  and,  that  the  stimulants  they  proposed 
would  kill  more  speedily  than  the  disease  itself. 
While,  on  the  other  hand,  by  copious  bleeding,  and 
the  medicines  that  had  been  taken  before.,  he  might 
still  be  saved.  The  other  physicians,  however, 
were  of  a  diflerent  opinion;  and  then  Dr.  Bruno 
declared  he  would  risk  no  farther  responsibility. 
Peruvian  bark  and  wine  were  then  administered. 
After  taking  these  stimulants,  his  Lordship  expressed 
f  Co 


lii 


i(i 


ill ' 


I 


I 


THE   LIFE    OF 


a  wish  to  sleep.  His  last  words  were, "  I  must  sleep 
now  ;*'  and  he  composed  himself  accordingly,  but 
never  awoke  again. 

For  four-and-twenty  hours  he  continued  in  a  state 
of  lethargy,  with  the  rattles  occasionally  in  his 
throat.  At  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  19th, 
Fletcher,  who  was  watching  by  his  bed-side,  saw 
him  open  his  eyes  and  then  shut  them,  apparently 
without  pain  or  moving  hand  or  foot.  "  My  God !" 
exclaimed  the  faithful  valet,  '*  I  fear  his  Lordship  is 
gone."    The  doctors  felt  his  pulse — it  was  so.     » 


t 


Afler  life's  fItAil  fever  he  sleeps  well 


« 


But  the  fittest  dirge  is  his  own  last  lay,  written  on 
the  day  he  completed  his  thirty-sixth  year,  soon 
after  his  arrival  at  Missolonghi,  when  his  hopes  of 
obtaining  distinction  in  the  Greek  cause  were, 
perhaps,  brightest ;  and  yet  it  breathes  of  dejection 
almost  to  boding. 


m 


m 

■■'Hi; 


I  I'i 


m 


i 


If 

iiiiii' 


m 


Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved 

Since  others'it  has  ce-ised  to  move, 
Yet  though  I  cannot  be  beloved 
Still  let  me  love. 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf, 

The  flowers  and  fVuits  of  love  are  gon^ 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Arc  mine  alone. 

The  fire  that  in  my  bosom  preys 

Is  like  to  some  volcanic  isle, 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze— 
A  Hmeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fears,  the  Jealous  care, 

Th'  exalted  portion  of  the  pain. 
And  power  of  love  I  cannot  share, 
But  wear  the  chain. 


■J-.'Vvl 


t 


But 't  Is  not  here— it  is  not  here—' 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul;  nor  now 
Where  glory  seals  the  hero's  biefi 

Or  binds  his  brow.  ;.     ^ 


'v: 


V' 


lUst  sleep ' 
ingly,  but 

■  ^ 
[  in  a  state 
ly  in  his 
the  19th, 
side,  saw 
ipparently 
My  God  I" 
jordship  is 
s  so.     ■ 


written  on 
yeoT,  soon 
LS  hopes  of 
luse  were, 
>f  dejection 


LORD   BYRON. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  fleld,    . 

Glory  and  Greece  around  us  see ; 
The  Spartan  borne  Ufion  his  shield 
Was  not  more  flree. 

Awake !  not  Greece— she  is  awake — 

Awake  my  spirit !  think  through  whom 
My  life-blood  tastes  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home ! 

I  tread  reviving  passions  down. 

Unworthy  manhood  !  Unto  thee 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  firown 

Of  beauty  be. 

If  thou  regrett'st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here,  up  to  the  fluid  and  give 
Away  t?;y  breath. 

Seek  out— less  oden  sought  than  found—- 

A  soldier's  grave— for  thee  the  best, 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest. 


303 


ii; 


■111 
'III 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 


'v>    h 


noriMiw 


The  funeral  Preparations  and  final  Obsequies. 

The  death  of  Lord  Byron  was  felt  by  all  Greece 
as  a  national  misfortune.  From  the  moment  it  was 
known  that  fears  were  entertained  for  his  life,  the 
progress  of  the  disease  was  watched  with  the 
deepest  anxiety  and  sorrow.  On  Easter  Sunday, 
the  day  on  which  he  expired,  thousands  of  the  inha- 
bitants of  Missolonghi  had  assembled  on  the  spa- 
cious plain  on  the  outside  of  the  city,  according  to 
an  ancient  custom,  to  exchange  the  salutations  of 
the  morning;  but  on  this  op^asion  it  was  remarked, 
that  instead  of  the  wonted  congratulation, "  Christ  is 
risen,"  they  inquired  first  "How  is  Lord  Byron  1" 

On  the  event  being  made  known,  the  Provisional 


i  I 


■'* 


I 


304 


THE   LIFE    OF 


Government  assembled,  and  a  proclamation,  of  which 
the  following^  is  a  translation,  was  issued : 

"  Provisional  Government  of  Western  Greece. 

"  The  day  of  festivity  and  rejoicing  is  turned  into 
one  of  sorrow  and  morning. 

"The  Lord  Noel  Byron  departed  this  life  at 
eleven*  o'clock  last  night,  after  an  illness  of  ten 
days.  His  death  was  caused  by  an  inflammatory 
fever.  Such  was  the  effect  of  his  Lordship's  illness 
on  the  public  mind,  that  all  classes  had  forgotten 
their  usual  recreations  of  Easter,  even  before  the 
afflicting  event  was  apprehended. 

"  The  loss  of  this  illustrious  individual  is  un- 
doubtedly to  be  deplored  by  all  Greece ;  but  it  mast 
be  more  especially  a  subject  of  lamentation  at  Mis- 
solonghi,  where  his  generosity  has  been  so  conspi- 
cuously displayed,  and  of  which  he  had  become  a 
citizen,  with  the  ulterior  determination  of  partici- 
pating in  all  the  dangers  of  the  war. 

"  Every  body  is  acquainted  with  the  beneficent 
acts  of  his  Lordship,  and  none  can  cease  to  hail  his 
name  as  that  of  a  real  benefactor. 

"  Until,  therefore,  the  final  determination  of  the 
national  Government  be  known,  and  by  virtue  of  the 
powers  with  which  it  has  been  pleased  to  invest  me, 
I  hereby  decree : 

"1st.  To-morrow  morning,  at  daylight,  thirty- 
seven  minute-guns  shall  be  fired  from  the  grand  bat- 
tery, being  the  number  which  corresponds  with 
the  age  of  the  illustrious  deceased. 

"  3d.  All  the  public  oiiices,  even  to  the  tribunals, 
are  to  remain  closed  for  three  successive  days. 

"  3d.  All  the  shops,  except  those  in  which  provi- 
sions or  medicines  are  sold,  will  also  be  shut ;  and  it 
is  strictly  enjoined  that  every  species  of  public 

*  Fletcher's  Narrative  implies  at  six  that  evening,  the  19th  April, 
lOM. 


lit 


LORD   BYRON. 


305 


i''l'. 


,  of  which 

irn  Greece. 

limed  into 

is  life  at 
!ss  of  ten 
ammatory 
ip's  illness 
forgotten 
before  the 

ual  is  un- 
but  it  mast 
ion  atMis- 
so  conspi- 
l  become  a 
of  partici- 

beneficent 
I  to  hail  his 

tion  of  the 
irtue  of  the 
3  invest  me, 

ght,  thirty- 
grand  bat- 
iponds  with 

le  tribunals, 

days, 
hich  provi- 
shut ;  and  it 
s  of  public 

,  the  19th  April, 


amusement  and  other  demonstrations  of  festivity  at 
Easter  may  be  suspended. 

"4th.  A  general  mourning  will  be  observed  for 
twenty-one  days. 

"  6th.  Prayers  and  a  funeral  service  are  to  be  of- 
fered up  in  all  the  churches. 

"  A.  MAVROCORDATOS. 

^  "  Georgis  Praidis, 

«  Given  at  Missolonghi,  this  19th  of  April,  1824." 

The  funeral  oration  was  written  and  delivered  on 
the  occasion,  by  Spiridioa  Tricoupi,  and  ordered  by 
the  government  to  be  published.  No  token  of  re- 
spect that  reverence  could  suggest,  or  custom  and 
religion  sanction,  was  omitted  by  the  public  author- 
ities, nor  by  the  people. 

Lord  Byron  having  omitted  to  give  directions  for 
the  disposal  of  his  body,  some  difficulty  arose  about 
fixing  the  place  of  interment.  But  after  being  em- 
balmed it  was  sent,  on  the  2d  of  May,  to  Zante, 
where  it  was  met  by  Lord  Sidney  Osborne,  a  rela- 
tion of  Lord  Byron,  by  marriage — the  secretary  of 
the  senate  at  Corfu. 

It  was  the  wish  of  Lord  Sidney  Osborne,  and 
others,  that  the  interment  should  be  in  Zante ;  but 
the  English  opposed  the  proposition  in  the  most  de- 
cided manner.  It  was  then  suggested  that  it  should 
be  conveyed  to  Athens,  and  deposited  in  the  temple 
of  Theseus,  or  in  the  Parthenon — Ulysses  Odysseus, 
the  governor  of  Athens,  having  sent  an  express  to 
Missolonghi,  to  solicit  the  remains  for  that  city; 
but,  before  it  arrived,  they  were  already  in  Zante, 
and  a  vessel  engaged  to  carry  them  to  London,  in 
the  expectation  that  they  would  be  deposited  in 
Westminster  Abbey  or  St.  Paul's. 

On  the  25th  of  May,  the  Florida  left  Zante  with 
the  body,  which  Colonel  Stanhope  accompanied; 
and,  on  the  29th  of  June  it  reached  the  Downs.  After 

Cc2 


il 


M 


N'    I 


# 


^:  m 


■ii 


ill 


f 

m 


806 


THE   LIFE   OF 


the  ship  was  cleared  from  quarantine,  Mr.  Hob- 
house,  with  his  Lordship's  soHcitor,  received  it  from 
Colonel  Stanhope,  and,  by  their  directions  it  was  re- 
moved to  the  house  of  Sir  E.  KnatchbuU,  in  West- 
minster, where  it  lay  in  state  several  days. 

The  dignitaries  of  the  Abbey  and  of  St.  Paul's 
having,  as  it  was  said,  refused  permission  to  depo- 
site  the  remains  in  either  of  these  great  national  re- 
ceptacles of  the  illustrious  dead,  it  was  determined 
that  they  should  be  laid  in  the  ancestral  vault  of  the 
Byrons.  '  The  funeral,  instead  of  being  public,  was 
in  consequence  private,  and  attended  by  only  a  few 
select  friends  to  Hucknell,  a  small  village  about  two 
miles  from  Newstead  Abbey,  in  the  church  of  which 
the  vault  is  situated;  there  the  coffin  was  depo- 
sited, in  conformity  to  a  wish  early  expressed  by 
the  poet,  that  his  dust  might  be  mingled  with  his 
mother's.  Yet,  unmeet  and  plain  as  the  solemnity 
was  in  its  circumstances,  a  remarkable  incident  gave 
it  interest  and  distinction :  as  it  passed  along  the 
streets  of  London,  a  sailor  was  observed  walking 
uncovered  near  the  hearse,  and  on  being  asked  what 
he  was  doing  there,  replied  that  he  had  served  Lord 
Byron  in  the  Levant,  and  had  come  to  pay  his  last 
respects  to  his  remains ;  a  simple  but  emphatic  tes- 
timony to  the  sincerity  of  that  regard  which  his 
Lordship  often  inspired,  and  which  with  more  steadi- 
ness might  always  have  commanded. 

The  coffin  bears  the  following  inscription : 

Lord  Byron,  of  Rochdale, 

Born  in  London,  January  22,  1788; 

Died    at   Missolonghi, 

IN  Western  Greece, 

April  19,  1824. 

Beside  the  coffin  the  urn  is  placed,  the  inscription 
on  which  is. 

Within  this  urn  are  deposited  the  heart,  brains,  ^c* 
of  the  deceased  Lord  Byron, 


If 


't'l 


LORD   BYRON. 


307 


dr.  Hob- 
d  it  from 
,t  was  re- 
in West- 

St.  Paul's 
to  depo- 
itional  re- 
jtermined 
lult  of  the 
ablic,  was 
nly  a  few 
about  two 
i  of  which 
vas  depo- 
)ressed  by 
i  with  his 
solemnity 
ident  gave 
along  the 
d  walking 
sked  what 
;rved  Lord 
ly  his  last 
phatic  tes- 
which  his 
ore  steadi- 

on: 


38; 


inscription 
brains,  ^c. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 


The  Character  of  Lord  Byron, 


My  endeavour,  in  the  foregoing  pages,  has  been 
to  give  a  general  view  of  the  intellectual  character 
of  Lord  Byron.  It  did  not  accord  with  the  plan  to 
enter  minutely  into  the  details  of  his  private  life, 
which  I  suspect  was  not  greatly  different  from  that 
of  any  other  person  of  his  rank,  not  distinguished 
for  particular  severity  of  manners.  In  some  re- 
spects his  Lordship  was,  no  doubt,  peculiar.  He 
possessed  a  vivacity  of  sensibility  not  common,  and 
talents  of  a  very  extraordinary  kind.  He  was  also 
distinguished  for  superior  personal  iJlegance,  par- 
ticularly in  his  bust.  The  style  and  character  of 
his  head  was  universally  admired ;  but  perhaps  the 
beauty  of  his  physiognomy  has  been  more  highly 
spoken  of  than  it  really  merited.  Us  chief  grace 
consisted,  when  he  was  in  a  gay  humour,  of  a  live- 
liness which  gave  a  joyous  meaning  to  every  arti- 
culation of  the  muscles  and  features  :  when  he  was 
less  agreeably  disposed,  the  expression  was  mo- 
rose to  a  very  repulsive  degree.  It  is,  however,  un- 
necessary to  describe  his  personal  character  here. 
I  have  already  said  enough  incidentally,  to  explain 
my  full  opinion  of  it.  In  the  mass,  I  do  not  think 
it  was  calculated  to  attract  much  permanent  affec- 
tion or  esteem.  In  the  detail  it  was  the  reverse : 
few  men  possessed  more  companionable  qualities 
than  Lord  Byron  did  occasionally ;  and  seen  at  in- 
tervals in  those  felicitous  moments,  I  imagine  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  have  said,  that  a  more 
interesting  companion  had  been  previously  met 
with.    But  he  was  not  always  in  that  fascinating 


Ml 


F 

'i 

•.•*A 

ii 

i; 

»'t 

j 
1 

'{• 


f 


I 


4 

■i 


■:» 


InI 


308 


THE   LIFE    OF 


State  of  pleasantry:  he  was  as  often  otherwise ;  and 
no  two  individuals  could  be  more  distinct  from  each 
other  than  Byron  in  his  gayety  and  in  his  misan- 
thropy. This  antithesis  was  the  great  cause  of  that 
diversity  of  opinion  concerning  him,  which  has  so 
much  divided  his  friends  and  adversaries.  Of  his 
character  as  a  poet  there  can  be  no  difference  of 
opinion,  but  only  a  difference  in  the  degree  of  admi- 
ration. 

Excellence  in  talent,  as  in  every  other  thing,  is 
comparative ;  but  the  universal  republic  of  letters 
will  acknowledge,  that  in  energy  of  expression  and 
liveliness  of  imagery  Byron  had  no  equal  in  his  own 
time.  Doubts,  indeed,  may  be  entertained,  if  in 
these  high  qualities  even  Shakspeare  himself  was 
his  superior.  .  C 

I  am  not  disposed  to  think  with  many  of  those 
who  rank  the  genius  of  Byron  almost  as  supreme, 
that  he  has  shown  less  skill  in  the  construction  of 
his  plots,  and  the  developement  of  his  tales,  than 
might  have  been  expected  from  one  so  splendidly 
endowed ;  for  it  has  ever  appeared  to  me  that  he  has 
accomplished  in  them  every  thing  he  proposed  to 
attain,  and  that  in  this  consists  one  of  his  great 
merits.  His  mind,  fervid  and  impassioned,  was  in 
all  his  compositions,  except  Don  Juan,  eagerly  fixed 
on  the  catastrophe.  He  ever  held  the  goal  full  in 
view,  and  drove  to  it  in  the  most  immediate  manner.  ^ 
By  this  straightforward  simplicity  all  the  interest ' 
which  intricacy  excites  was  of  necessity  disre- 
garded. He  is  therefore  not  treated  justly  when  it 
is  supposed  that  he  might  have  done  better  had  he 
shown  more  art :  the  wonder  is,  that  he  should  have 
produced  such  magnificent  effects  with  so  little.  He 
could  not  have  made  the  satiated  and  meditative 
Harold  so  darkling  and  excursive,  so  lone,  "aweary," 
and  misanthropical,  had  he  treated  him  as  the  hero 
of  a  scholastic  epic.  The  might  of  the  poet  in  such 
creations  lay  in  the  riches  of  his  diction,  and  in  the 


LORD   BYRON. 


309 


ise;  and 
rom  each 
s  misan- 
se  of  that 
;h  has  so 
.  Of  his 
jrence  of 
>  of  admi- 

thing,  is 
of  letters 
ission  and 
in  his  own 
ned,  if  in 
nself  was 

y  of  those 
}  supreme, 
ruction  of 
tales,  than 
splendidly 
that  he  has 
roposed  to 
'  his  great 
ed,  was  in 
jerly  fixed 
oal  full  in 
te  manner.  ^ 
le  interest ' 
jity  disre- 
y  when  it 
er  had  he 
lould  have 
ittle.    He 
meditative 
"aweary," 
.  the  hero 
oet  in  such 
and  in  the 


felicity  with  which  he  described  feelings  in  relation 
to  the  aspect  of  scenes  and  the  reminiscences  with 
which  the  scenes  themselves  were  associated. 

If  in  language  and  plan  he  be  so  excellent,  it  may 
be  asked  why  should  he  not  be  honoured  with  that 
pre-eminent  niche  in  the  temple  which  so  many  in 
the  world  have  by  suffrage  assigned  to  him  1  Simply 
because,  with  all  the  life  and  beauty  of  his  style,  the 
vigour  and  truth  of  his  descriptions,  the  boldness  of 
his  conceptions,  and  the  reach  of  his  vision  in  the 
dark  abysses  of  passion.  Lord  Byron  was  but  imper- 
fectly acquainted  with  human  nature.  He  looked 
but  on  the  outside  of  man.  No  characteristic  action 
distinguishes  one  of  his  heroes  from  another,  nor  is 
there  much  dissimilarity  in  their  sentiments;  they 
have  no  individuality ;  they  stalk  and  pass  in  mist 
and  gloom,  grim,  ghastly,  and  portentous,  myste- 
rious shadows,  entities  of  the  twilight,  weird  things 
like  the  sceptred  efiigies  of  the  unborn  issue  of 
Banquo. 

Combined  with  vast  power.  Lord  Byron  possessed, 
beyond  all  question,  the  greatest  degree  of  originality 
of  any  poet  of  this  age.  In  this  rare  quality  he  has 
no  parallel  in  any  age.  All  other  poets  and  inven- 
tive authors  are  measured  in  their  excellence  by  the 
accuracy  with  which  they  fit  sentiments  appropriate 
not  only  to  the  characters  they  create,  but  to  the 
situations  in  which  they  place  them  :  the  works  of 
Lord  Byron  display  the  opposite  to  this,  and  with  the 
most  extraordinary  splendour.  He  endows  his  crea- 
tions with  his  own  qualities ;  he  fmds  in  the  situa- 
tions in  which  he  places  them  only  opportunities  to 
express  what  he  has  himself  felt  or  suffered ;  and 
yet  he  mixes  so  much  probability  in  the  circum- 
stances, that  they  are  always  eloquently  proper. 
He  does  every  thing,  as  it  were,  the  reverse  of  other 
poets ;  in  the  air  and  sea,  which  have  been  in  all 
times  the  emblems  of  change  and  the  similitudes  of 
inconstancy,  he  has  discovered  the  very  principles 


!'H  I 


',  I 


lily . 


^ 


<    I 


310 


THE  LIFE  OF 


I 


i 


[I   »    < 


;^- 


m 


of  permanency.  The  ocean  in  his  view,  not  by  its 
vastness,  its  unfathomable  depths,  and  its  limitless 
extent,  becomes  an  image  of  deity,  but  by  its  un- 
changeable character ! 

The  variety  of  his  productions  present  a  prodigious 
display  of  power.  In  his  short  career  he  has  entitled 
himself  to  be  ranked  in  the  first  class  of  the  British 
poets  for  quantity  alone.  By  Chllde  Harold,  and  his 
other  poems  of  the  same  mood,  he  has  extended  the 
scope  of  feeling,  made  us  acquainted  with  new  trains 
of  association,  awakened  sympathies  of  which  few 
suspected  themselves  of  possessing;  and  he  has 
laid  open  darker  recesses  in  the  bosom  than  were 
previously  supposed  to  exist.  The  deep  and  dread- 
ful caverns  of  remorse  had  long  been  explored ;  but 
he  was  the  first  to  visit  the  bottomless  pit  of  satiety. 

The  delineation  of  that  Promethean  fortitude  which 
defied  conscience,  as  he  has  shown  it  in  Manfred,  is 
his  greatest  achievement.  The  terrific  fables  o*" 
Marlowe,  and  of  Goethe,  in  their  respective  versions 
of  the  legend  of  Faustus,  had  disclosed  the  utmost 
writhings  which  remorse,  in  the  fiercest  of  its  tor- 
ments, can  express;  but  what  are  those  Laocoon 
agonies  to  the  sublime  serenity  of  Manfred.  In  the 
power,  the  originality,  and  the  genius  combined,  of 
that  unexampled  performance,  Lord  Byron  has  placed 
himself  on  an  equality  with  Milton.  The  Satan  of 
the  Paradise  Lost  is  animated  by  motives,  and  digni- 
fied by  an  eternal  enterprise.  He  hath  purposes  of 
infinite  prospect  to  perform,  and  an  immeasurable 
ambition  to  satisfy.  Manfred  hath  neither  purpose, 
nor  ambition,  nor  any  desire  that  seeks  gratification. 
He  hath  done  a  deed  which  severs  him  from  hope, 
as  everlastingly  as  the  apostacy  with  the  angels  has 
done  Satan.  He  acknowledges  no  contrition  to 
bespeak  commiseration,  he  complains  of  no  wrong 
to  justify  revenge,  for  he  feels  none;  he  despises 
sympathy,  and  almost  glories  in  his  perdition. 
'  The  creation  of  such  a  character  is  in  the  sub- 


li'jiiil 


Il» 


LORD   BYRON. 


311 


not  by  its 
I  limitless 
by  its  un- 

;)rodigious 
as  entitled 
;he  British 
(Id,  and  his 
tended  the 
new  trains 
which  few 
id  he  has 
than  were 
and  dread- 
)lored;  but 
t  of  satiety, 
itude  which 
Manfred,  is 
e  fables  of 
ive  versions 
the  utmost 
t  of  its  tor- 
je  Laocoon 
•ed.    In  the 
)mbined,  of 
n  has  placed 
le  Satan  of 
3,  and  digni- 
)urposes  of 
measurable 
ler  purpose, 
ratification, 
from  hope, 
i  angels  has 
ontrition  to 
►f  no  wrong 
he  despises 
iition. 
in  the  sub- 


limest  degree  of  originality ;  to  give  it  appropriate 
thoughts  and  feelings  required  powers  worthy  of  the 
conception  ;  and  to  make  it  susceptible  of  being  con- 
templated as  within  the  scope  and  range  of  human 
sympathy,  places  Byron  above  all  his  contemporaries 
and  antecedents.  Milton  has  described  in  Satan 
the  greatest  of  human  passions,  supernatural  attri- 
butes, directed  to  immortal  intents,  and  stung  with 
inextinguishable  revenge ;  but  Satan  is  only  a  dila- 
tation of  man.  Manfred  is  loftier,  and  worse  than 
Satan ;  he  has  conquered  punishment,  having  within 
himself  a  greater  than  hell  can  inflict.  There  is  a 
fearful  mystery  in  this  conception ;  it  is  only  by 
solemnly  questioning  the  spirits  that  lurk  within  the 
dark  metaphors  in  which  Manfred  expresses  himself, 
that  the  hideous  secrets  of  the  character  can  be  con- 
jectured. 

But  although  in  intellectual  power,  and  in  creative 
originality,  Byron  is  entitled  to  stand  on  the  highest 
peak  of  the  mountain,  his  verse  is  often  so  harsh, 
and  his  language  so  obscure,  that  in  the  power  of  de- 
lighting he  is  only  a  poet  of  the  second  class.  He 
had  all  the  talent  and  the  means  requisite  to  im- 
body  his  conceptions  in  a  manner  worthy  of  their 
might  and  majesty  ;  his  treasury  was  rich  in  every 
thing  rare  and  beautiful  for  illustration,  but  he  pos- 
sessed not  the  instinct  requisite  to  guide  him  in  the 
selection  of  the  things  necessary  to  the  inspiration 
of  delight: — ^he  could  give  his  statue  life  and  beauty, 
and  warmth,  and  motion,  and  eloquence,  but  not  a 
tuneful  voice. 

Some  curious  metaphysicians,  in  their  subtle  cri- 
ticism, have  said  that  Don  Juan  was  but  the  bright 
side  of  Childe  Harold,  and  that  all  its  most  brilliant 
imagery  was  similar  to  that  of  which  the  dark  and 
the  shadows  were  delineated  in  his  other  works.  It 
may  be  so.  And,  without  question,  a  great  similar- 
ity runs  through  every  thing  that  has  come  from 
the  poet's  pen ;  but  it  is  a  family  resemblance,  the 


.It 


.1:1 


Hi 


:i^ 


H 


•\ 


312 


THE    LIFE    OF   LORD   BYRON. 


progeny  are  all  like  one  another ;  but  \vhere  are  those 
who  are  like  them  1  I  know  of  no  author  in  prose  or 
rhyme,  in  the  English  language,  v/ith  whom  Byron  can 
be  compared.  Imitaters  of  his  manner  there  will  be 
often  and  many,  but  he  will  ever  remain  one  of  the 
few  whom  the  world  acknowledges  are  alike  supreme, 
and  yet  unlike  each  other — epochal  characters,  who 
mark  extraordinary  periods  in  history. 

Raphael  is  the  only  man  of  pre-eminence  whose 
career  can  be  compared  with  that  of  Byron ;  at  an 
age  when  the  genius  of  most  men  is  but  in  the 
dawning,  they  had  both  attained  their  meridian  of 
glory,  and  they  both  died  so  early,  that  it  may  be 
said  they  were  lent  to  the  world  only  to  show  the 
height  to  which  the  mind  may  ascend  when  time 
shall  be  allowed  to  accomplish  the  full  cultivation 
of  such  extraordinary  endowments. 


]r 


.m 


'■m 


(313) 


are  those 
n  prose  or 
Byron can 
re  wiU  be 
me  of  the 
i  supreme, 
Iters,  who 

ice  whose 
on;  at  an 
)ut  in  the 
eridian  of 
it  may  be 
show  the 
ivhen  time 
cultivation 


APPENDIX. 


ANECDOTES  OF  LORD  BYRON. 

The  detached  anecdotes  of  Lord  Byron  are  nume- 
rous, and  many  of  them  much  to  his  credit:  those 
that  are  so,  I  am  desirous  to  preserve,  and  should 
have  interwoven  them  in  the  body  of  the  work,  could 
I  have  found  a  fitting  place  for  doin?  so,  or  been 
able  to  have  made  them  part  and  parcel  of  a  system- 
atic narrative. 

I. 

"A  young  lady  of  considerable  talents,  bat  who  had  never  been  able 
to  succeed  in  turning  them  to  any  profitable  account,  was  reduced  to 
great  hardships  through  the  misfortunes  of  her  flunlly.  The  only  per- 
sons flrom  whom  she  could  have  hoped  for  relief  were  abroad ;  and  urged 
on,  more  by  the  sufferings  of  those  she  held  dear,  than  by  her  own,  sum- 
moned  up  resolution  to  wait  on  Lord  Byron  at  his  apartments  in  the  Al- 
bany,  apd  solicit  his  subscription  to  a  volume  of  poems :  she  had  no  pre- 
vious knowledge  of  him,  except  fVom  his  works ;  but  fh)m  the  boldnes* 
and  feeling  expressed  in  them,  she  concluded  that  he  must  be  a  man  of 
a  kind  heart  and  amiable  disposition.  She  entered  the  apartment  with 
diffidence,  but  soon  found  courage  to  state  her  request,  which  she  did 
with  simplicity  and  delicacy.  He  listened  with  attention ;  and  when 
she  had  done  speaking,  he,  as  if  to  divert  her  thoughts  from  a  subject 
which  could  not  but  be  painftil  to  her,  began  to  converse  with  her  in 
words  so  fliscinating,  and  tones  so  gentle,  that  she  hardly  perceived  he 
had  been  writing,  until  he  put  a  slip  of  paper  into  her  hand,  saying  it 
was  his  subscription,  and  that  he  most  heartily  wished  her  success. 
*  But,'  added  he, '  we  are  both  young,  and  the  world  is  very  censorious ; 
and  so  if  I  were  to  take  any  active  part  in  procuring  subscribers  to  your 
poems,  I  fear  it  would  do  you  harm,  rather  than  good.'  The  young  lady, 
overpowered  by  the  prudence  and  delicacy  of  his  conduct,  took  her  leave; 
and  upon  opening  the  paper  in  the  street,  which  in  her  agitation  she  had 
not  previously  looked  at,  she  found  it  was  a  draft  upon  his  banker  for  fifty 
poand».'"—G(Uignanf  a  edition. 

n. 

"  While  in  the  island  of  Cephalonia.  at  Metaxata,  an  embankment,  near 
wUdi  several  peratMU  had  been  engaged  digging,  fell  in,  and  buried 

Dd 


w 


314 


APPENDIX. 


«.:' 


I    i 


;;i 

',,1 

t  i 

1 

1 

1     'v'°^^|asa 
1 ,    '  '^^^SSS' 

i 

•ome  of  them  alive.  lie  wan  at  dinner  when  he  heard  of  the  tecident ; 
starting  up  fVom  the  table,  he  fled  to  the  spot,  accompanied  by  hla  physl* 
cian.  The  labourerH  ernpioyed  in  extricating  their  companions  soon  be- 
came alarmed  for  themni'lvcs,  and  refuaed  to  go  on,  saying,  they  believed 
they  had  dug  out  all  the  bodies  which  had  been  covered  by  the  rubbish. 
Byron  endeavoured  to  force  them  to  continue  Iheir  exertions,  but  finding 
menaces  in  vain,  he  seized  a  spade,  and  began  to  dig  most  r^albusly ; 
when  the  peasantry  Joined  him,  and  they  succeeded  In  saving  two  more 
persons  flrom  certain  diaaih.'*—GcUigtumtM  edition, 

ia. 

"  A  schoolflsllow  of  Byron's  had  a  very  small  Shetland  pony,  which 
his  fhther  had  bought  for  him:  they  went  one  day  to  the  banks  of  the 
Don  to  bathe,  but  having  only  the  pony,  they  were  obliged  to  follow  the 
good  old  practice,  called  in  Scotland.,  *  ride  and  tie ;'  when  thev  came  to 
the  bridge  over  the  dark  romantic  iitream,  Byron  bethought  hun  of  the 
prophecy  which  he  has  quoted  in  Don  Juan. 

Brig  o' Balgounie,  black  *s  your  wa' 
Wi'  a  wife's  ae  son  and  a  mare's  ae  foat 
Doan  ye  shall  At' !' 

He  immediately  stopped  his  companion,  who  was  riding,  and  asked  him 
if  he  remembered  the  prophecy,  maying,  that  as  they  were  both  only  sons, 
and  as  the  pony  might  be  '  a  mare's  ae  foal,'  he  would  ride  over  first,  be- 
cause he  had  only  a  mother  to  lament  him,  should  the  prophecy  be  ftil- 
filled  by  the  (hlling  of  the  bridge;  whereas  the  other  had  both  a  ihther 
and  a  mother." — Galignani*a  edition. 

IV. 

"When  Lord  Byron  was  a  member  of  the  Managing  (query,  mi»-ma> 
naging)  Committee  of  Drury-lane  Theatre,  Bartley  was  speaking  with 
him  on  the  decay  of  the  drama,  and  took  occasion  to  urge  his  Lordship  to 
write  a  tragedy  for  the  stage :  '  I  cannot,'  was  the  reply,  '  I  do  n't  know 
how  to  make  the  people  go  on  and  oflT  in  the  scenes,  and  know  not  where 
to  find  a  fit  character.'  '  Take  your  own,'  said  Bartley,  meaning,  in  the 
honesty  of  his  heart,  one  of  his  Laras  or  Childe  Harolds.  *Mttch 
obliged  to  you,'  was  the  reply— and  exit  in  a  huff!  Byrjn  thought  he 
spoke  literally  of  his  own  real  character." 

V. 

Lord  Byron  was  very  Jealous  of  his  title.  "  A  flriend  told  me,  that  an 
Italian  apothecary  having  sent  him  one  day  a  packet  of  medicines  ad- 
dressed to  'Mons.  Byron,'  this  mock-heroic  mistake  aroused  his  indigna- 
tion, and  he  sent  the  physic  back,  to  learn  better  manners  ^— Leigh  Hunt. 

"  He  affected  to  doubt  whether  Shakspeare  was  so  great  a  genius  as 
he  has  been  taken  for.  There  was  a  greater  committal  of  himself  at  the 
bottom  of  this  notion  than  he  supposed;  and  perhaps  circumstances  had 
really  disenabled  him  (Vom  having  the  proper  idea  of  Shakspeare,  thongk 
it  could  not  have  (hllen  so  short  of  the  truth  as  he  pretended.  Spenser  he 
could  not  read,  at  least  he  said  so.  I  lent  him  a  volume  of  the  *  Faery 
Queene,'  and  he  said  he  would  try  to  like  it.  Next  day  he  brought  it  to 
my  study- window  and  said,  '  Here,  Hunt,  here  is  your  Spenser;  1  ean- 


APPENDIX. 


315 


the  •ocident ; 
by  hli  phy«l- 
lions  BOon  be- 
they  believed 
r  ibe  rubbish. 
s,  but  finding 
oBt  7«albtti«ly ; 
ring  two  more 


d  pony,  wWch 
)  banks  of  the 
d  to  follow  the 
ri  they  came  to 
g\A  him  of  ib« 


,  and  aslted  Wm 
!  both  only  sons, 
le  over  first,  be- 
prophecy  be  ftil- 
ad  both  a  fother 


(query,  mis-ma- 
8  speaking  with 
B  his  Lordship  to 
,  « I  do  n't  know 
know  not  where 
,  meaning,  in  the 
larolds.  'Much 
tyr  jn  thought  he 


told  me,  that  an 
of  medicines  ad- 
used  his  indigna- 


nreat  a  genius  as 
of  himself  at  the 
TcumstaLces  had 
ittkspeare,  thongk 
ded.  Spenser  he 
me  of  the  'Faery 
he  brought  it  lo 
Spenser;  lean- 


not  see  any  thing  in  him.'  When  he  found  Sandys's  Ovid  among  my 
books,  he  said,  '  God !  what  an  unpleasant  recollection  I  have  of  this 
book :  I  met  with  it  on  my  we<l<liiig-day ;  I  read  it  wliile  I  was  waiting 
to  go  lo  church.'  "—Leigh  Hunt. 

VII. 

"  •  Have  you  seen  my  three  helmets  ?'  he  inquired  one  day,  with  an  air 
between  hesitation  and  hurry.  Upon  being  answered  in  the  negative, 
he  said  he  would  show  tliem  tnc,  and  began  to  enter  a  room  for  that  pur- 
pose; but  stopped  short,  and  |  ut  it  off  to  anotiier  time.  These  three 
helmets  he  had  got  up  in  honour  of  his  goin^  to  war,  and  as  harbingers 
to  achievement.  They  were  the  proper  classical  sliape,  gilt,  and  had  ills 
motto—'  Crede  Byron.'  "—Leigh  Hunt. 

VIII. 

"His  superstition  was  remarkahle.  1  do  not  mean  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  because  he  was  sujK'rHtitious,  but  because  it  wan  petty  and  old 
womanish.  He  believed  in  the  ill-luck  of  Fridays;  and  was  seriously 
disconcerted  if  any  thing  was  tu  be  done  on  that  flrij(htful  day  of  the  week. 
Had  he  been  a  Roman,  he  would  have  started  at  crows,  when  he  made 
a  jest  of  augurs.  He  used  to  tell  a  story  of  somebody's  meeting  him, 
while  in  Italy,  in  St.  James's-street."— Lejg^A  Hunt. 

IX. 

One  night  in  the  opera,  while  he  was  in  Italy,  a  gentleman  appeared 
in  one  of  the  lower  boxes,  so  like  Lord  Byron,  that  he  attracted  a  great 
deal  of  attention.  I  saw  him  myself,  and  was  not  convinced  it  was  not 
him  until  I  went  close  to  the  box  to  speak  to  him.  I  afterward  ascer- 
tained that  the  stranger  belonged  to  the  Stock  Exchange. — /.  G. 

X. 

On  another  occasion,  during  the  queen's  trial,  it  was  reported  that  he 
had  arrived  flrom  abroad,  and  was  seen  entering  the  House  of  Lords. 
A  friend  of  mine  mentioned  the  circumstance  to  him  afterward.  "  No  '.'* 
said  he,  "  that  would  have  been  too  much,  considering  the  state  of  mat- 
ters between  me  and  my  own  wife."—/.  G. 

XI. 

Lord  Byron  said,  that  Hunt  had  no  rijiht  perception  of  the  sublimity 
of  Alpine  scenery ;  that  is,  no  moral  associations  in  connexion  with 
such  scenery ;  and  that  he  called  a  mountain  a  great  impostor.  I  shall 
quote  flrom  his  visit  to  Italy  what  M  Hunt  says  himself:  it  is  daintily 
conceived  and  expressed. 

"  The  Alps.— It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  mountains.  They  had 
a  fine,  sulky  look,  up  aloft  in  the  sky— cold,  lofty,  and  distant.  I  used 
to  think  that  mountains  would  npress  me  but  little ;  that  by  the  same 
process  of  imagination  re  by  which  a  brook  can  be  fancied  a 

mighty  river,  with  forest  isi  of  verdure  on  its  banks,  a  mountain 
coAd  be  made  a  mole-hili  "r  wtiich  we  step.  But  one  look  convinced 
roe  to  the  contrary.  I  i(.  .11  could  elevate  better  than  I  could  pull 
down,  and  I  was  glad  of  it."— Leigh  Hunt. 

xn. 

In  one  of  Lord  Byron's  conversations  with  Doctor  Kennedy,  he  said, 
is  speaking  of  the  liberality  of  the  late  pope,  "  I  like  his  Holiness  very 


316 


APPENDIX. 


••■S 


I' 


,1 .' 


illlliW-i 


much,  particularly  since  an  order,  wbich  I  understand  he  has  lately 

gven,  that  no  more  miracles  shall  be  performed."  In  speaking  of  Mr. 
enry  Drunimond  and  Lord  Calthorpe,  he  inquired  whether  the  Doctor 
knew  them.  "  No !"  was  the  answer ;  "  except  by  report,  which  points 
them  out  as  eminent  for  their  piety." — "  I  know  them  very  well,"  said 
his  Lordship.  "  They  were  not  always  so ;  but  they  are  excellent  men. 
Lord  Calthorpe  was  the  first  who  called  me  an  Atheist,  when  we  were 
at  school  at  Harrow,  for  which  I  gave  him  as  good  a  drubbing  as  ever 
he  got  in  his  Ufe."— Dr.  Kennedy. 

xm. 

"  Speaking  of  witches,"  said  Lord  Byron  to  Doctor  Kennedy,  "  what 
think  you  of  the  witch  of  Endor  ?  I  have  always  thought  this  the  finest 
and  most  finished  witch-scene  that  ever  was  written  or  conceived ; 
and  you  will  be  of  my  opinion,  if  you  consider  all  the  circumstances 
and  the  actors  in  the  case,  together  with  the  gravity,  simplicity,  and 
dignity  of  the  language.  It  beats  all  the  ghost-scenes  I  ever  read.  Hie 
finest  conception  on  a  similar  subject  is  that  of  Goethe's  devil,  Mephis- 
tophiles ;  and  though  of  course  you  will  give  the  priority  to  the  former, 
as  being  inspired,  yet  the  latter,  if  you  know  it,  will  appear  to  you— at 
least  it  does  to  me — one  of  the  finest  and  most  sublime  specimens  of 
human  conception."— Dr.  Kennedy. 

XIV. 

One  evening  Lord  Byron  was  with  a  fViend  at  a  masquerade  in  the 
Argyle-rooms,  a  few  nights  after  Skefllngton's  tragedy  of  The  Myste- 
rious  Bride  had  been  damned.  His  friend  was  dressed  as  a  nun,  who 
had  endured  depredation  from  the  French  in  Portugal. — "  What  is  she  V' 
said  Skeffington,  who  came  up  to  his  Lordship,  pointing  to  the  nun. 
The  reply  was,  "  The  Mysterious  Bride." — /.  G, 

XV. 

"  One  of  Lord  Byron's  household  had  several  times  involved  himself 
and  his  master  in  perplexity  and  trouble  by  his  unrestrained  attach- 
ment  to  v  men.  In  Greece  this  had  been  very  annoying,  and  induced 
Lord  Byron  to  think  of  a  means  of  curing  it.  A  young  Suliote  of  the 
guard  was  accordingly  dressed  up  like  a  woman,  and  instructed  to  place 
himself  in  the  way  of  the  amorous  swain.  The  bait  took,  and  after 
some  communication,  but  rather  by  signs  than  by  words,  for  the  pair 
did  not  understand  each  other's  language,  the  sham  lady  was  carefhlly 
conducted  by  the  gallant  to  one  of  Lord  Byron's  apartments.  Here  the 
couple  were  surprised  by  an  enraged  Suliote,  a  husband  provided  for  the 
occasion,  accompanied  by  half  a  dozen  of  his  comrades,  whose  pre- 
sence and  threats  terrified  the  poor  lackey  almost  out  of  his  sensef. 
The  noise  of  course  brought  Lord  Byron  to  the  spot  to  laugh  at  the 
tricked  serving-man,  and  rescue  him  firom  the  effects  of  his  terror." — 
Galignani's  edition. 

XVI. 

"A  few  days  after  the  earthquake,  which  took  place  on  the  Slst  of 
February,  as  we  were  all  sitting  at  table  in  the  evening,  we  were  sud- 
denly alarmed  by  a  noise  and  a  shaking  of  the  house,  somewhat  similar 
to  that  which  we  had  experienced  when  the  earthquake  occurred.  Of 
course  all  started  firom  their  places,  and  there  was  the  same  conftision 
&«  on  the  former  evening,  at  which  Byron,  who  was  present,  laughed 


APPENDIX. 


317 


e  has  lately 
&king  of  Mr. 
IT  the  Doctor 
which  points 
y  well,"  said 
(cellent  men. 
len  we  were 
ibing  as  ever 


inedy,  "what 
this  the  finest 
or  conceived; 
jircumstances 
limplicity,  and 
er  read.  The 
devil,  Mephis- 

to  the  former, 
ear  to  you— at 

specimens  of 


iquerade  in  the 

of  The  Myste- 

as  a  nun,  who 

What  is  she?' 

ng  to  the  nun. 


ivolved  himself 
(trained  attach- 
,  and  induced 
Suliote  of  the 
itructed  to  place 
took,  and  after 
ds,  for  the  pair 
y  was  carefuly 
ents.    Here  the 
)rovided  for  the 
les,  whose  pre- 
t  of  his  sensed, 
to  laugh  at  the 
)f  his  terror."— 


on  the  21st  of 

K,  we  were  sud- 

imewhat  similar 

e  occurred.    Of 

same  conftision 

present,  laughed 


Immoderately :  we  were  reassured  by  this,  and  soon  learned  that  the 
Whole  was  a  method  he  had  adopted  to  sport  with  our  fears. "~6a/i^- 
nanfs  edition. 

XVII. 

"The  reg.ment,  or  rather  brigpde,  we  formed,  can  be  described  only  as 
Byron  himself  describes  it.  There  was  a  Greek  tailor,  who  had  been 
in  the  British  service  in  the  Ionian  islands,  where  he  had  married  an 
Italian  woman.  This  lady,  knowing  something  of  the  military  service, 
petitioned  Lord  Byron  to  appoint  her  husband  master-tailor  of  the 
brigade.  The  suggestion  was  useful,  and  this  part  of  her  petition  was 
immediately  granted.  At  the  same  time,  however,  she  solicited  that  she 
might  be  permitted  to  raise  a  corps  of  women  to  be  placed  under  her 
orders  to  accompany  the  regiment.  She  stipulated  for  free  quarters  and 
rations  for  them,  but  rejected  all  claim  for  pay.  They  were  to  be  firee 
of  all  encumbrances,  and  were  to  wash,  sew,  cook,  and  otherwise  pro- 
vide for  the  men.  The  proposition  pleased  Lord  Byron,  and  stating  the 
matter  to  me,  he  said  he  hoped  1  should  have  no  objection.  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  see  women  accompany  the  English  army,  and  I  knew 
that  though  sometimes  an  encumbrance,  they  were  on  the  whole  more 
beneficial  than  otherwise.  In  Greece  there  were  many  circumstances 
which  would  make  their  services  extremely  valuable,  and  I  gave  my 
consent  to  the  measure.  The  tailor's  wife  did  accordingly  recruit  a  con- 
siderable number  of  unencumbered  women,  of  almost  all  nations,  but 
principally  Greeks,  Italians,  Maltese,  and  ncgresses.  '  I  was  afk-aid,* 
said  Lord  Byron, '  when  I  mentioned  this  matter  to  you,  you  would  be 
crusty  and  oppose  it— it  is  the  very  thing.  Let  me  see ;  my  corps  out- 
does Falstaifs.  There  are  English,  Germans,  French,  Maltese,  Ragu- 
sians,  Italians,  Neapolitans,  Transylvanians,  Russians,  Suliotes,  Mo- 
leotes,  and  western  Greeks  in  firont,  and  to  bring  up  the  rear,  the 
tailor's  wife  and  her  troop.  Glorious  Apollo !  No  general  ever  before 
had  such  an  army.'  "—GalignanVs  edition. 

xvm. 

"  Lord  Byron  had  a  black  groom  with  him  in  Greece,  an  American  by 
birth,  to  whom  he  was  very  partial.  He  always  insisted  on  this  man's 
calling  him  massa,  whenever  he  spoke  to  him.  On  one  occasion,  the 
groom  met  with  two  women  of  his  own  complexion,  who  had  been 
slaves  to  the  Turks  and  liberated,  but  had  been  left  almost  to  starve 
when  the  Greeks  had  risen  on  their  tyrant.  Being  of  the  same  colour 
was  a  bond  of  sympathy  between  them  and  the  groom,  and  he  applied  to 
me  to  give  both  these  women  quarters  in  the  seraglio.  I  granted  the  ap- 
plication, and  mentioned  it  to  Lord  Byron,  who  laughed  at  the  gallantry 
of  his  groom,  and  ordered  that  he  should  be  brought  before  him  at  ten 
o'clock  the  next  day,  to  answer  for  his  presumption  in  making  such  an 
application.  At  ten  o'clock  accordingly  he  attended  his  master,  with 
great  trembling  and  fear,  but  stuttered  so  when  he  attempted  to  speak, 
that  he  could  not  make  himself  understood.  Lord  Byron,  endeavouring 
almost  in  vain  to  preserve  his  gravity,  reproved  him  severely  for  his  pre- 
sumption. Blacky  stuttered  a  thousand  excuses,  and  was  ready  to  do 
«ny  thing  to  appease  his  massa's  anger.  His  great  yellow  eyes  wide 
open,  he  trembling  firom  head  to  foot,  his  wandering  and  stuttering 
excuses, his  visible  dread,  all  tended  to  provoke  laughter,  and  Lord  Byron 
fearing  his  own  dignity  would  be  hove  overboard,  told  him  to  hold  his 
(tvagae  mA  listen  to  his  sentence.    I  was  commanded  to  enter  it  on  his 

D  d  2 


318 


APPENDIX. 


f^lr' 


■f 


memonndam'book,  and  then  he  pronounced,  in  a  solemn  tone  of  volea, 
while  blacky  stood  aghast,  expecting  some  severe  punishment,  the  fol- 
lowing doom :  '  My  determination  is,  that  the  children  born  of  these 
black  women,  of  which  you  may  be  the  father,  shall  be  my  property, 
and  I  will  maintain  them.  What  say  you  V  *  Go— Go— God  bless  you. 
massa,  may  you  live  great  while,'  stuttered  out  the  groom,  and  sallied 
forth  to  tell  the  good  news  to  the  two  distressed  women.'*— Ga2t^am''« 
edition. 

XIX. 

"  The  luxury  of  Lord  Byron's  living,  at  this  time,  in  Missolonghi,  may 
be  seen  from  the  following  order  which  he  gave  his  superintendent  of 
the  household  for  the  daily  expenses  of  his  own  table.  It  amounts  to  no 
more  than  one  piastre. 

Paras, 
Bread,  a  pound  and  a  half  -       -       -       15 

Wine 7 

Fish 15 

Olives 3 


'J. 


'■V 

-I 

'■■  (' 
'|l 

Q 
It 


40 
<'  This  was  his  dinner ;  his  breakfkst  consisted  of  a  single  cup  of  tea, 
without  milk  or  sugar."— GaZt^ani'^  edition. 

XX. 

"It  is  true  that  Lord  Byron's  high  notions  of  rank  were  in  his  boyish 
days  so  little  disguised  or  softened  down  as  to  draw  upon  him  at  times 
the  ridicule  of  his  companions ;  and  it  was  at  Dulwich,  I  think,  that 
ft^om  his  ft-equent  boast  of  the  superiority  of  an  old  English  barony  over 
all  the  later  creations  of  the  peerage,  he  got  the  nickname,  among  the 
boys,  of  '  the  Old  English  Baron.'  ^-—Moore. 

XXI 

"  While  Lord  Byron  and  Mr.  Peel  were  at  Harrow  together,  a  tyrant  a 
few  years  older,  whose  name  was  +***♦♦  claimed  a  right  to  tag 
little  Peel,  which  claim  (whether  rightly  or  wrongly,  I  know  not)  Peel 
resisted.  His  resistance,  however,  was  in  vain  :******  not  only 
subdued  him,  but  determined  to  punish  the  reflractory  slave ;  and  pn>> 
ceeded  forthwith  to  put  his  determination  in  practice  by  inflicting  a  kind 
of  bastinado  on  the  iimer  fleshy  side  of  the  boy's  arm,  which  during  the 
operation  was  twisted  round  with  some  degree  of  technical  skill,  to  ren- 
der  the  pain  more  acute.  While  the  stripes  were  succeeding  each  other, 
and  poor  Peel  writhing  under  them,  Byron  saw  and  Itilt  for  the  misery 
of  his  flriend,  and,  although  he  knew  that  he  was  not  strong  enough  to 
fight*  *****  withany  hope  of  success,  and  that  it  was  dangerous 
even  to  approach  him,  he  advanced  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  with  a 
blush  of  rage,  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  a  voice  trembling,  between  terror 
and  indignation,  asked  very  humbly  if  ***♦♦♦  « would  be  pleased 
to  tell  him  how  many  stripes  he  meant  to  inflict  V  '  Why,'  returned  the 
executioner,  <  you  little  rascal,  what  is  that  to  you  V  '  Because,  if  you 
please,'  said  Byron,  holding  out  bis  arm,  '  I  would  ti^ke  half.'"— Afoor*. 

XXII 

"  In  the  autumn  'of  1802,  he  passed  a  short  time  with  bis  mother  at 
Bath,  and  entered  rather  prematurely  into  some  of  the  gayeties  of  the 


APPENDIX. 


319 


me  of  voice, 
»ent,  the  (bl- 
orn  of  these 
ny  property, 
>d  bless  yotL 
I,  and  sallied 
■Galignanfs 


lolonghUmay 
rintendent  of 
imounts  to  no 

t 

r 

i 


gle  cup  of  tea, 


e  In  his  boyish 
1  him  at  times 
ti,  I  think,  that 
sh  barony  over 
me,  among  the 


ther,  atyranta 
a  right  to  fhg 
mow  not)  Peel 
*  *  not  only 
ave ;  and  pro- 
nflictlngakind 
lich  during  the 
iai  skill,  to  ren- 
ing  each  other, 
for  the  misery 
;ong  enough  to 
was  dangerous 
on,  and  with  a 
between  terror 
ould  be  pleased 
y,'  returned  the 
Because,  if  you 
&alf.'"— Moore. 


J  bis  mother  at 
gayeties  of  tlio 


place.  At  a  masquerade,  given  by  Lady  Riddel,  he  appeared  in  the 
character  of  a  Turkish  boy,  a  sor*  of  anticipation  botb  in  beauty 
and  costume,  of  his  own  young  Selem  in  The  Bride.  On  his  enter- 
ing into  the  house,  some  person  attempted  to  snatch  the  diamond 
crescent  IVomhis  turban,  but  was  prevented  by  the  prompt  interposition 
of  one  of  the  party."— ilfoore. 

XXIII. 

"  You  ask  me  to  recall  some  anecdotes  of  the  time  we  spent  together 
at  Ilarrowjrate,  in  the  summer  of  1806,  on  our  return  from  college,  he 
from  Cambridge,  and  1  fVom  Edinburgh ;  but  so  many  years  have  elapsed 
since  then,  that  l  really  feel  myself  as  if  recalling  a  distant  dream.  We, 
I  remember,  went  in  Lord  Byron's  own  carriage  with  post-horses ;  and 
he  sent  his  groom  with  two  saddle-horses,  and  a  beautifully-formed, 
very  ferocious  bull-mastiff,  called  Nelson,  to  meet  us  there.  Boatswain 
went  by  the  side  of  his  valet,  Frank,  on  the  box  with  us.  The  bull-dog 
Nelson  always  wore  a  muzzle,  and  was  occasionally  sent  for  into  uur 
private  room,  when  the  muzzle  was  taken  off  much  to  my  annoyance, 
and  he  and  his  master  amused  themselves  with  throwing  the  room  into 
disorder.  There  was  always  a  jealous  feud  between  this  Nelson  and 
Boatswain,  and  whenever  the  latter  came  into  the  room  while  the  former 
was  there,  they  instantly  seized  each  other,  and  then  Byron,  myself, 
Frank,  and  all  the  waiters  that  could  be  found,  were  vigorously  engaged 
in  parting  them ;  which  was,  in  general,  only  effected  by  thrusting  poker 
and  tongs  into  the  mouth  of  each.  But  one  day  Nelson  unfortunately 
escaped  out  of  the  room  without  his  muzzle,  and,  going  into  the  stable- 
yard,  fastened  upon  the  throat  of  a  horse,  from  which  he  could  not  be 
disengaged.  The  stable-boys  ran  in  alarm  to  find  Frank,  who,  taking 
one  of  his  Lordship's  Wogdon's  pistols,  always  kept  loaded  in  his  room, 
shot  poor  Nelson  through  the  head,  to  the  great  regret  of  Byron."— Jfoore. 

XXIV. 

*'  Hisfbndness  for  dogs,  another  fancy  which  accompanied  him  through 
life,  may  be  judged  from  the  .anecdotes  already  given  in  the  account  of  his 
expedition  to  Harrowgate.  Of  his  favourite  dog  Boatswain,  whom  he 
has  immortalized  in  verse,  and  by  whose  side  it  was  once  his  solemn 
purpose  to  be  buried,  some  traits  are  told,  indicative  not  only  of  intelli- 
gence, but  of  a  generosity  of  spirit,  which  might  well  win  for  him  the 
ajOTections  of  such  a  master  as  Byron.  One  of  these  I  shall  endeavour  to 
relate,  as  nearly  as  possible  as  it  was  told  to  me.  Mrs.  Byron  had  a  fox- 
terrier  called  Gilpin,  with  whom  her  son's  dog  Boatswain  was  perpetu- 
idly  at  war,  taking  every  opportunity  of  attacking  and  worrying  him  so 
violently,  that  it  was  very  much  apprehended  he  would  kill  the  animal. 
Mrs.  Byron,  therefore,  sent  off  her  terrier  to  a  tenant  at  Newstead,  and 
on  the  departure  of  Lord  Byron  for  Cambridge,  his  fViend  Boatswain, 
with  two  other  dogs,  was  intrusted  to  the  care  of  ?  servant  till  his  re- 
turn.  One  morning  the  servant  was  much  alarmid  by  the  disappear- 
anflie  of  Boals\vAin,  and  throughout  the  whole  of  the  day  he  could  hear 
no  tidings  of  him.  At  last,  towards  evening,  the  stray  dog  arrived,  ac- 
companied by  Gilpin,  whom  he  led  immediately  to  the  kitchen  fire, 
licking  him,  and  lavishing  upon  him  every  possible  demonstration  of 
joy.  The  llact  was,  he  had  been  all  the  way  to  Newstead  to  fetch  him, 
and  having  now  established  his  former  foe  under  the  roof  once  more, 
agreed  m>  perfectly  well  with  him  ever  after,  that  he  even  protected  him 


■     ■UM'.iii 


320 


APPENDIX. 


■  1  ,■ '(' 
'.'     !> 

■■■.Ml' 

"I 

■1  9' 


against  the  insults  of  other  dogs  (a  task  whicli  the  quarrelsomeness  of 
the  little  terrier  rendered  no  sinecure) ;  and  it'  he  but  heard  Gilpin's  voice 
in  distress,  would  fly  instantly  to  his  rescue."— il/oore. 

XXV. 

**  Of  his  charity  and  kind-heartedness,  he  left  behind  him  at  South' 
well,  as  indeed  at  every  place  throiighout  life  where  he  resided  any 
time,  the  most  cordial  recollections.  *  He  never,'  says  a  person  who 
knew  him  intimately  at  this  period,  *  met  with  objects  of  distress  with- 
out affording  them  succour.'  Among  many  little  traits  of  this  nature, 
which  his  friends  delight  to.  tell,  I  select  the  following,  less  as  a  proof  of 
his  generosity,  than  from  the  interest  which  the  simple  incident  itself,  as 
connected  with  the'  name  of  Byron,  presents.  While  yet  a  schoolboy, 
he  happened  to  be  in  a  bookseller's  shop  at  Southwell  when  a  poor  wo- 
man came  in  to  purchase  a  Bible.  The  price  she  was  told  by  the  shop 
man  was  eight  shillings.  '  Ah,  dear  sir  I'  she  exclaimed,  ^  I  cannot  pay 
such  a  price :  I  did  not  think  it  would  cost  half  the  money.'  The  wo 
man  was  then,  with  a  look  of  disanpointment,  going  away,  when  youn|( 
Byron  called  her  back,  and  made  her  a  present  of  the  Bible." — Moore. 

XXVI. 

"  In  his  attention  to  his  person  and  dress,  to  the  becmning  srrange 
ment  of  bis  hair,  and  to  whatever  might  best  shov;  off  the  beauty  will, 
which  nature  had  gifted  him,  he  manifested,  even  thus  early,  his  anxiety 
to  make  himself  pleasing  to  that  sex  who  were,  from  first  to  last,  the 
ruling  stars  of  his  destiny  The  fear  of  becoming  what  he  was  naturally 
inclined  to  be,  enormously  fat,  had  induced  him  fVom  his  first  entrance 
at  Cambridge,  to  adopt,  for  the  purpose  of  reducing  himself,  a  system  of 
violent  exercise  and  abstinence,  together  with  the  firequent  use  of  warm 
baths.  But  the  imbitterhig  circumstance  of  his  life — that  which  haunted 
him  like  a  curse,  amid  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  and  the  anticipations  of 
fame  and  pleasure — was,  strange  to  say,  the  trifling  deformity  of  his 
foot.  By  that  one  slight  blemish  (as,  in  his  moments  of  melancholy, 
he  persuaded  himself),  all  the  blessings  that  nature  had  showered  upon 
him  were  counterbalanced.  His  reverend  tViend,  Mr.  Becher,  finding 
him  one  day  unusually  dejected,  endeavoured  to  cheer  and  rouse  him, 
by  representing,  in  their  brightest  colours,  all  the  various  advantages 
with  which  Providence  had  endowed  him;  and  among  the  greatest, 
that  of '  a  mind  which  placed  him  above  the  rest  of  mankind.'  '  Ah,  my 
dear  friend,'  said  Byron,  mournflilly, '  if  this  (laying  Ms  hand  on  his 
forehead)  places  me  above  the  rest  of  mankind,  that  (pointing  to  his  foot) 
places  me  far,  far  below  them.' " — Moore. 

XXVII. 

"  His  coming  of  age,  in  1809,  was  celebrated  at  Newstead  by  such 
festivities  as  his  narrow  means  and  society  could  furnish.  Besides  the 
ritual  roasting  of  an  ox,  there  was  a  ball,  it  seems,  given  on  the  occasion, 
of  which  the  only  particular  I  could  collect  (Vom  the  old  domestic  who 
mentioned  it  was,  that  Mr.  Hanson,  the  agent  of  her  lord,  was  among 
the  dancers.  Of  lord  Byron's  own  method  of  commemorating  the  day 
I  find  the  following  curious  record  iu  a  letter  written  firom  Genoa  in 
1822.  '  Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  the  day  I  came  of  age  I  dined  on.  eggs 
and  bacon  and  a  bottle  of  ale  ?  For  once  in  a  way  they  are  my  favourite 
dish  and  drinkable ;  but,  as  neither  of  them  agree  with  me,  l' never  us« 
them  but  on  great  jubilees— «nce  in  four  or  five  years  or  aa.**-'Moort, 


'i'H' 


APPENDIX. 


331 


XXVIII. 

"  At  Smyrna  Lord  Byron  took  up  his  residence  in  the  house  or  the 
consul-general,  and  remained  there,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three 
days,  employed  in  a  visit  to  the  ruins  of  Ephesus,  till  the  11th  of  April. 
It  was  during  this  time,  as  appears  fVom  a  memorandum  of  his  own, 
that  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  which  he  had  begun  five 
months  before  at  Joannina,  were  completed.  The  memorandum  alluded 
to,  which  I  find  prefixed  to  his  original  manuscript  of  the  poem,  is  as 
follows : 

*'  Byron,  Joannina  in  Albania,  begur.  Oct.  31, 1809;  concluded  Canto 
Sd,  Smyrna,  March  28, 1810.    BYRON.''— Moure. 

XXIX. 

"  In  the  last  edition  of  M.  D'Israeli's  work  on  *  the  literary  character,* 
that  gentleman  has  given  some  curious  marginal  notes,  whicli  he  found 
written  by  Lord  Byron  in  a  copy  of  this  work  that  belonged  to  him. 
Among  them  is  the  following  enumeration  of  the  writers  that,  besides 
Rycaut,  have  drawn  his  attention  so  early  to  the  east : 

"  *  Knolles,  Cai.temir,  De  Tott,  Lady  M.  W.  Montague,  Hawkin's 
translation  from  Mignot's  History  of  the  Turks,  the  Arabian  Nights,  all 
travels,  or  histories,  or  books  upon  the  east  I  could  meet  with,  I  had 
read,  as  well  as  Rycaut,  before  I  was  ten  years  old.  I  think  the  Arabian 
Nights  first.  After  these  I  preferred  the  history  of  naval  actions,  Don 
Quixote,  and  Smollett's  novels,  particularly  Roderick  Random ;  and  I 
was  passionate  for  the  Roman  history.  When  a  boy,  I  could  never 
bear  to  read  any  poetry  without  disgust  and  reluctance.' " — Moore. 

XXX. 

"  During  Lord  Byron's  administration,  a  ballet  was  invented  by  the 
elder  Byrne,  in  which  Miss  Smith  (since  Mrs.  Oscar  Byrne)  had  a  pas 
seul.  This  the  lady  wished  to  remove  to  a  later  period  in  the  ballet. 
The  ballet-master  refused,  and  the  lady  swore  she  would  not  dance  in 
it  at  all.  The  music  incidental  to  the  dance  began  to  play,  and  the  lady 
walked  off  the  stage.  Both  parties  flounced  into  the  green-room,  to  lay 
the  case  befbre  Lord  Byron,  who  happened  to  be  the  only  person  in 
that  apartment.  The  noble  committee-man  made  an  award  in  favour 
of  Miss  Smith,  and  both  complainants  rushed  angrily  out  of  the  room 
at  the  instant  of  my  entering  it.  *  If  you  had  come  a  minute  sooner,' 
said  Lord  Byron, '  you  would  have  heard  a  curious  matter  decided  on  by 
me :  a  question  of  dancing !  by  me,'  added  he,  looking  down  at  tfie  lame 
limb,  ♦  whom  nature,  from  my  birth,  has  prohibited  from  taking  a  sin- 
gle step.'  His  cou>7tenance  liell  after  he  had  uttered  this,  as  if  he  had 
said  too  much ;  and  for  a  moment  there  was  an  embarrassing  silence 
on  both  sides." — Moore. 

XXXL 

The  fbllovnng  account  ofLord  Byron,  at  Milan,  before  he  fixed  his  re- 
sidence  at  Venice,  is  interesting.  It  is  extracted  from  "  The  Foreign 
Literary  Gazette,"  a  periodical  work  which  was  prematurely  abandoned, 
and  is  translated  from  the  French  of  M.  Stendhal,  a  gentleman  of 
literary  celebrity  in  France,  but  whose  works  are  not  much  known  in 
this  country. 

"  In  1817,  a  few  young  people  met  every  evening  at  the  Theatre  de 
la  Scala,  at  Milan,  in  the  box  of  Monsignor  Ludovic  de  Br6me,  formerly 
ebief  almoner  of  the  ex-king  of  Italy.    This  Italian  custom,  not  gene- 


322 


APPENDIX. 


^:f^ 


rally  followed  in  France,  banished  all  ceremony.  The  afTcctation  that 
chills  the  atmosphere  of  a  French  saloon  \h  unknown  in  the  society  of 
Milan.  How  is  it  possible  that  such  a  sentiment  can  And  a  place 
among  individuals  in  the  habit  of  seeing  each  other  above  three  hun- 
dred times  in  the  course  of  a  twelvemonth?  One  evening,  a  stranger 
made  his  appearance  in  Monsignor  de  Brume's  box.  He  was  young,  of 
middling  stature,  and  with  remarkably  fine  eyes.  As  he  advanced,  we 
observed  that  he  limped  a  little.  '  Gentlemen,'  said  Monsienor  de 
Brtme,  '  this  is  Lord  Byron.'  We  were  afterward  presented  to  his 
Lordship,  the  whole  scene  passing  with  as  much  ceremonious  gravity, 
as  if  our  introducer  had  been  De  Brume's  grandfather  in  days  of  yore, 
ambassador  fVom  the  Duke  of  Savoy  to  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  Aware 
of  the  character  of  the  English,  who  generally  avoid  such  as  appear  to 
court  their  society,  we  cautiously  abstained  from  conversing  with,  or 
even  looking  at,  Lord  Byron.  The  latter  had  been  informed,  that  in  the 
course  of  the  evening  he  would  probably  be  introduced  to  a  stranger 
who  had  performed  the  celebrated  campaign  of  Moscow,  which  still 
iwssessed  the  charm  of  novelty,  as  at  that  time  we  had  not  been  spoiled 
by  any  romances  on  the  subject.  A  fine-looking  man,  with  a  military 
appearance,  ha^jpening  to  be  of  our  party,  his  Lordship  naturally  con- 
cluded that  he  was  the  hero ;  and  accordingly,  in  addressing  him,  re- 
laxed considerably  from  the  natural  coldness  of  his  manner.  The  next 
day,  however,  Byron  was  undeceived.  Changing  his  battery,  he  did 
me  the  honour  to  address  me  on  the  subject  of  Russia.  I  idolized  Na- 
poleon, and  replied  to  his  Lordship  as  T  should  have  done  to  a  member  of 
the  legislative  assembly  who  had  exiled  the  ex-emperor  to  St.  Helena. 
I  subsequently  discovered,  that  Lord  Byron  was  at  once  enthusiastic 
in  favour  of  Napoleon,  and  jealous  of  his  fame.  He  used  to  say,  '  Na- 
poleon and  myself  are  the  only  individuals  who  sign  our  names  with 
the  initials  N.  B.'  (Noel  Byron.)  My  determination  to  be  cold  offers 
some  explanation  for  the  marked  kindness  with  which,  at  the  end  of 
a  few  days,  Lord  Byron  did  me  the  favour  to  regard  me.  Our  friends 
in  the  box  imagined,  that  the  discussion  which  had  taken  place,  and 
which,  though  polite  and  respectftil  on  my  part,  had  been  rather  warm, 
would  prevent  all  fiirther  intimacy  between  us.  They  were  mistaken. 
The  next  evening,  his  Lordship  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  walked  with 
me  for  an  hour  in  the  saloon  of  the  Theatre  de  la  Scala.  I  was  gratified 
with  his  politeness,  for  which,  at  the  bottom,  I  was  indebted  to  his  de- 
sire of  converging  with  an  eye-witness  on  the  subject  of  the  Russian 
campaign.  He  even  closely  c^oss-questioned  me  on  this  point.  How- 
ever, a  second  reading  ofChilde  Harold  made  amends  for  all.  His  pro- 
gress in  the  good  graces  of  my  Italian  friends,  who  met  every  evening 
in  Monsignor  de  Brume's  box,  was  not  very  rapid.  I  must  confess, 
that  his  Lordship,  one  evening,  broached  rather  a  whimsical  idea — that, 
in  a  discussion  which  had  just  been  started,  his  title  added  weight  to 
his  opinion.  On  that  occasion,  De  Br^me  retorted  with  the  well-known 
anecdote  of  Marshal  de  Castries,  who,  shocked  at  the  deference  once 
paid  to  D'Alembert's  judgment,  exclaimed,  *  A  pretty  reasoner,  truly !  a 
fellow  not  worth  three  thousand  francs  a-year !'  On  another  evening. 
Lord  Byron  afforded  an  opening  to  ridicule,  by  the  warmth  with  which 
he  denied  all  resemblance  between  his  own  character  and  that  of  Jean 
Jaques  Rousseau,  to  whom  he  had  been  compared.  His  principal  ob- 
jection to  the  comparison,  though  he  would  not  acknowledge  the  fact, 
was,  that  Rousseau  had  been  a  servant,  and  the  son  of  a  watchmaker. 
We  could  not  avoid  a  hearty  laugh,  when,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ar- 
((iuneut,  Byron  requested  front  De  BrSme,  who  was  aUuad  to  tb«  oldest 


APPCNDIX. 


333 


jtation  that 
e  society  of 
ind  a  place 
three  hun- 
,  a  stranger 
18  young,  of 
Wanced,  we 
onsignor  de 
ented  to  his 
lious  gravity, 
lays  of  yore, 
av.    Aware 
I  as  appear  to 
sing  with,  or 
id,  that  in  the 
to  a  stranger 
r,  which  still 
t  been  sjioiled 
ith  a  military 
naturally  con- 
ssing  him,  re- 
ler.    The  next 
attery,  he  did 
I  idolized  Na- 
o  a  member  of 
to  St.  Helena, 
;e  enthusiastic 
3d  to  say,  'Na- 
ir  names  with 
be  cold  offers 
I,  at  the  end  of 
.    Our  friends 
ken  place,  and 
n  rather  warm, 
were  mistaken, 
d  walked  with 
I  was  gratilled 
Bbted  to  his  de- 
of  the  Russian 
point.    How- 
irall.    Hispro- 
t  every  evening 
must  confess, 
lical  idea— that, 
idded  weight  to 
Ithe  well-known 
deference  once 
asoner, truly!  a 
mother  evening, 
mth  with  which 
md  that  of  Jean 
is  principal  ob- 
rledge  the  fact, 
,  a  watchmaker. 
Lusion  of  the  ar- 
to  tb«  oldest 


tiobility  of  Turin,  some  information  relative  to  the  flimlly  of  Govon,  in 
whose  service  .lean  Jaques  had  actually  lived. — (See  Les  Confessions.) 
Lord  Byron  always  entertained  a  great  horror  of  corpuloiKiy.  His  anti- 
pathy to  a  All!  habit  of  body  migin  be  called  a  flxed  idea.  M.  Polidori, 
a  young  physician  who  travelled  with  him,  assured;  us,  that  his  Lord- 
8hip>  mother  was  of  low  stature  and  extremely  fat.  During  at  least  a 
third  part  of  the  day,  Hyron  was  a  dandy,  expressed  a  constant  dread 
of  augmenting  the  bulk  of  his  outward  man,  concealed  his  right  foot  as 
much  as  possible,  and  endeavoured  to  render  himself  agreeable  in 
female  society.  His  vanity,  however,  frequently  induced  him  to  lose 
sight  of  the  end,  in  his  attention  to  the  means.  Love  whs  sacrificed ; — 
an  affhir  of  the  heart  would  have  interfered  with  his  daily  exercise  on 
horseback.  At  Milan  and  Venice,  his  line  eyes,  his  handsome  horses, 
and  his  fame  gained  him  the  smiles  of  several  young,  noble,  and  lovely 
females,  one  of  whom.  In  particular,  performed  a  journey  of  more  than 
Ji  hundred  miles  for  the  pleasure  of  being  present  at  a  masked  ball  to 
which  his  Lordship  was  Invited.  Byron  was  apprized  of  the  circum- 
stance, but,  either  from  hauteur  or  shyness,  declined  an  introduction. 
*  Your  poets  are  perfect  clowns,'  cried  the  fair  one,  as  she  indignantly 
quitted  the  ball-room.  Had  Ijyron  succeeded  In  his  pretensions  to  be 
thought  the  finest  man  in  England,  and  had  his  claims  to  the  fashion- 
able supremacy  been  at  the  same  time  disputed,  he  would  still  have 
been  unsatisfied.  In  his  moments  of  dandyism,  he  always  pronounced 
the  name  of  Brummel  with  a  mingled  emotion  of  respect  and  jealousy. 
When  his  personal  attractions  were  not  the  subject  of  his  considera- 
tion, his  noble  birth  was  uppermost  in  his  thoughts.  At  Milan  we  oflen 
purposely  discussed  in  iiis  presence  the  question,  *  if  Henry  IV.  could 
justly  pretend  to  the  attribute  of  clemuncy,  after  having  ordered  his  old 
companion,  the  Duke  de  Biron,  to  be  beheaded  V  '  Napoleon  would  have 
acted  differently,'  was  his  Lordship's  constant  reply.  It  was  ludicrous 
to  observe  his  res|)ect  wavering  undecided  between  acquired  distinction 
and  his  own  nobility,  which  he  considered  far  above  that  of  the  Duke 
de  Biron.  When  the  pride  of  birth  and  [lersonal  vanity  no  longer 
usuri)ed  undue  sway  over  his  mind,  he  again  became  the  sublime  poet 
and  the  man  of  sense.  Never,  after  the  example  of  Madame  de  StaCl, 
did  he  indulge  in  the  childish  vanity  of  ♦  turning  a  phrase.'  When  lite- 
rary subjects  were  introduced,  Byron  was  exactly  the  reverse  of  an  aca- 
demician ;  his  thoughts  flowed  with  greater  rapidity  than  his  words, 
and  his  expressions  were  free  from  all  affectation  or  studied  grace.  To- 
wards midnight,  particularly  when  the  music  of  the  opera  had  produced 
an  impression  on  his  feelings,  instead  of  describing  them  with  a  view 
to  effect,  he  yielded  naturally  to  his  emotions,  as  though  he  had  all  his 
life  been  an  inhabitant  of  the  south." 

After  quoting  a  passage  from  Moore's  recently-published  Life  of  Byron, 
in  which  the  poet  obscurely  alludes  to  his  emorse  fbr  some  unexplained 
crime,  real  or  imaginary,  Mr.  Stendhal  tl'   .  proceeds : 

<*  Is  it  possible  that  Byron  might  have  had  some  guilty  stain  upon  his 
conscience,  similar  to  that  which  wrecked  Othello's  fame  ?  Such  a  ques- 
tion can  no  longer  be  injurious  but  to  him  who  has  given  it  birth.  It 
must  be  admitted,  that  during  nearly  a  third  of  the  time  we  passed  in 
the  poet's  society,  he  appeared  to  us  like  one  labouring  under  an  access 
of  folly,  often  approaching  to  madness.  '  Can  it  be,'  have  we  sometimes 
exclaimed,  *  that  in  a  phrensy  of  pride  or  jealousy  he  has  shortened  the 
days  of  some  fair  Grecian  slave,  fhithless  to  her  vows  of  love  V  Be  this 
as  it  may,  a  great  man  once  known  may  be  said  to  have  opened  an  ac 


324 


APPENDIX. 


K   j 


count  vith  posterity.  If  Byron  played  the  part  of  Othello,  hundreds  of 
witnesses  will  be  found  to  bear  testimony  to  the  damning  deed ;  and 
sooner  or  later  posterity  will  learn  whether  his  remorse  was  founded 
in  guilt,  or  in  the  affectation  of  which  he  has  so  (Vequently  been  accused. 
After  r.ll,  is  it  not  possible  that  his  conscience  might  have  exaggerated 
some  youthful  error  ? One  evening,  among  others,  the  conver- 
sation turned  upon  a  handsome  Milanese  female,  who  had  eagerly  de- 
sired to  venture  her  person  in  single  combat  with  a  lover  by  whom  she 
had  been  abandoned :  the  discussion  afterward  changed  to  the  story 
of  a  prince  who  in  cold  blood  had  murdered  his  mistress  for  an  act  of 
infidelity.  Byron  was  instantly  silent,  endeavoured  to  restrain  his  feel- 
,ings,  but,  unequal  to  the  effort,  soon  afterward  indignantly  quitted  the 
box.  "^'Is  indignation  on  this  occasion  was  evidentlv  directed  against 
the  subject  of  the  anecdote,  and  in  our  eyes  absolved  himself  fVom  the 
suspicion  of  a  similar  offence.  Whatever  might  be  the  crime  of  which 
Byron  apparently  stood  self-accused,  I  may  compare  it  to  the  robbery  of 
a  piece  of  riband,  committed  by  Jean  Jaques  Rousseau  during  his  stay 
at  Turin.  After  the  lapse  of  a  few  weelis,  Byron  seemed  to  have  ac- 
quired a  taste  for  the  society  of  Milan.  When  the  performances  for  the 
evening  were  over,  we  ft-equently  stop)ied  at  the  door  of  the  theatre  to 
enjoy  the  sight  of  the  beauties  who  passed  us  in  review.  Perhaps  few 
cities  could  boast  such  an  assemblage  of  lovely  women  as  that  which 
chance  had  collected  at  Milan  in  1817.  Many  of  them  had  flattered 
themselves  with  the  idea  that  Byron  would  seek  an  introduction ;  but, 
whether  firom  pride,  timidity,  or  a  remnant  of  dandyism,  which  induced 
him  to  do  exactly  the  contrary  of  what  was  expected,  he  invariably  de- 
clined that  honour.  He  seemed  to  prefer  a  conversation  on  poetical  or 
philosophical  subjects.  At  the  theatre,  our  discussions  were  frequently 
so  energetical  as  to  rouse  the  indignation  of  the  pit.  One  evening,  in  the 
middle  of  a  philosophical  argument  on  the  pnnciple  of  utility,  Silvio 
Pellico,  a  delightflil  poet,  who  has  since  died  in  an  Austrian  prison,  came 
in  breathless  haste  to  apprize  Lord  Byron,  that  hisftiend  and  physician, 
Polidori,  had  been  arrested.  We  instantly  ran  to  the  guard-hou$lB.  It 
turned  out,  that  Polidori  had  fancied  himself  incommc^ed  in  the  pit  by 
the  Air  cap  of  the  officer  on  guard,  and  had  requested  him  to  take  it  off, 
alleging  that  it  impeded  his  view  of  the  stage.  The  poet  Monti  had  ac- 
companied us,  and,  to  the  number  of  fifteen  or  twenty,  we  surrounded 
the  prisoner.  Every  one  spoke  at  once ;  Polidori  was  beside  himself 
with  passion,  and  his  face  red  as  a  burning  coal.  Byron,  though  he  too 
was  in  a  violent  rage,  was,  on  the  contrary,  pale  as  ashes.  His  patri- 
cian blood  boiled  as  he  reflected  on  the  slight  consideration  in  which  he 
was  held.  I  have  little  doubt  but  at  that  moment  he  regretted  the  wall  of 
separation  which  he  had  reared  between  himself  and  the  ultra  party.  At 
all  events,  the  Austrian  ofiluer  spied  the  leaven  of  sedition  in  our  coun- 
tenances, and,  if  he  was  versed  in  history,  probably  thought  of  the 
insurrection  of  Genoa,  in  1740.  He  ran  fVom  the  guard-house  to  call  his 
men,  who  seized  their  arms  that  had  been  piled  on  the  outside.  Monti's 
idea  was  excellent ;  *  Fortiamo  tutti ;  restino  solamente  i  titolati.^* 
De  Br^me  remained,  with  the  Marquis  de  Sartirana,  his  brother,  Count 
Confhlonieri,  and  Lord  Byron.  These  gentlemen  having  written  their 
names  aud  titles,  the  list  was  handed  to  the  officer  on  guard,  who  in- 
stantly fbrgot  the  insult  offered  to  his  fUr  cap,  and  allowed  Polidori  to 
leave  the  guard-house.    In  the  evening,  however,  the  doctor  received  an 

*Let  us  all  go  out:  let  those  only  remain  who  are  titled  personages. 


APPENDIX. 


335 


hundreds  of 
ig  deed ;  and 
was  founded 
been  accused. 
5  exaggerated 
I,  the  conver- 
id  eagerly  de- 
by  WhoTn  she 
to  the  story 
I  for  an  act  of 
jtrain  his  feel- 
^ly  quitted  the 
•ected  against 
nself  from  the 
rime  of  which 
the  robbery  of 
uring  his  stay 
ed  to  have  ac- 
mances  for  the 
r  the  theatre  to 
Perhaps  few 
1  as  that  which 
n  had  flattered 
-oduction;  but, 
which  induced 
!  invariably  de- 
n  on  poetical  or 
ivere  frequently 
t  evening,  in  the 
f  utUity,  SUvio 
an  prison,  came 
1  and  physician, 
uard-hou$!B.    It 
led  in  the  pit  by 
m  to  take  it  off, 
t  Monti  had  ac- 
we  surrounded 
I  beside  himself 
I,  though  he  too 
les.    His  patri- 
ion  in  which  he 
tted  the  wall  of 
altra  party.    At 
ion  in  our  coun- 
thought  of  the 
house  to  call  his 
utside.    Monti's 
nte  i  titolati:* 
I  brother,  Count 
ng  written  their 
guard,  who  in- 
owed  Polidori  to 
ctor  received  an 

led  personages. 


order  to  qUlt  Milan  within  twenty-four  hours.  Foaming  with  rage,  he 
swore  that  he  would  oiio  day  return  and  bestow  manual  castigation  on 
the  governor  who  treated  him  with  so  little  respect.  He  did  iwt  return  ; 
and  two  years  afterward  a  bottle  of  prussic  acid  terminated  his  career ; 
— at  least,  sic  dicitur.  The  morning  afler  Polidori's  d«'i)ariure,  Byron, 
in  a  t£te-d- fete  v,nl\  me,  complained  bitterly  '  persecution.  So  little 
was  I  acquainted  with  i  titolnti,  to  use  Monti's  expros.-jioii,  that  in  the 
simplicity  of  my  heart  I  gave  his  Lordship  the  followin-,'  counsel :  '  Real- 
ize,' said  I, '  four  or  rtve  hundred  thousand  francs;  two  or  three  confi- 
dential friends  will  circulate  the  report  of  your  death,  and  bestow  on  a 
log  of  wood  the  honours  of  Christian  huriai  in  some  snug  retired  spot — 
the  island  of  Elba,  suppose.  An  authentic  account  of  your  decease 
shall  be  forwarded  to  England ;  meanwhile,  under  the  name  of  Smith 
or  Wood,  you  may  live  comfortably  and  (juietly  at  Lima.  When,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr.  Wood  becomes  a  venerable  gray-headed 
old  gentleman,  he  may  even  return  to  Europe,  and  purchase  from  a  Ro- 
man or  Parisian  bookseller,  a  set  of  Childe  Harold,  or  Lara,  thirtieth 
edition,  with  notes  and  annotations.  Moreover,  when  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr. 
Wood  is  really  about  to  make  his  e.xit  from  this  life,  he  may,  if  he  pleases, 
enjoy  one  bright  original  moment :  thus  may  he  say — Lord  Byron,  who 
for  thirty  years  has  been  n.unbered  with  the  dead,  even  now  lingers 
on  this  side  or'  eternity : — 1  air.  the  man :  the  society  of  my  countrymen 
ajipeared  to  me  so  insipid,  that  I  ijuitted  tliem  in  disgust.'  '  My  cousin,  vi  ^o 
is  heir  to  my  title,  owes  you  an  intinity  of  thanks,'  coldly  replied  Lord 
Byron.  I  repressed  the  repartee  which  hovered  on  my  lipa.  Byron  had 
a  defect  in  common  with  all  the  spoihjd  children  of  fortune.  He  cherished 
in  his  bosom  two  contradictory  inclinations.  He  wished  to  be  received 
ail  a  man  of  rank,  and  admired  as  a  brilliant  poet.  The  Elena  of  Mayer 
was  at  that  time  the  performance  most  in  vogue  at  Milan.  The  public 
patiently  endured  two  miserable  acts,  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  su- 
blime sesteto  in  the  third.  One  day,  when  it  was  sung  with  more  than 
ordinary  power,!  was  struck  with  the  expression  of  Byron's  eyes.  Never 
had  I  seen  any  thing  so  enthusiastic.  Internally,  I  made  a  vow  that 
1  never  would  of  my  own  free  accord  sadden  a  spirit  so  nobhj.  In  the 
evening,  I  recollect  that  someone  alluded  to  the  following  singular  son* 
net  of  Tasso,  in  Wliich  the  poet  makes  a  boast  of  incredulity. 

♦  Odi,  Filli,  che  tuona  .... 
Ma  che  curar  dobbiam  che  faccia  Glove  ? 
Godianj  noi  qui,  s'egli  d  turbato  in  cielo. 
Tema  in  volgo  i  suoi  tuoini .... 
Pera  il  mondo,  e  rovini !  a  me  non  cale 
Se  noa  di  (juel  che  piii  place  e  diletta; 
Che,  se  terra  sard  terra  ancor  fui.* 

Hear'st  thou,  Phyllis  ?  it  thunders ! 

But  what  are  .love's  acts  to  us  ? 

Let  us  enjoy  ourselves  here;  if  he  be  troubled  in  liis  heaven 

Vulgar  spirits  may  dread  his  thunder. 

Let  the  world  perish  and  fall  in  ruins ;  I  care  not, 

Except  for  her  who  pleases  me  best ; 

For  if  dust  I  shall  be,  dust  I  was. 

"'Those  verses,'  said  Byron,  •  were  written  under  the  influence  of 
spleen — ^nothing  more.    A  belief  in  the  Supreme  Being  was  an  absolute 

Ee 


% 


326 


APPENDIX. 


14 


i'i 


neceraity  for  the  tender  and  warnn  imagination  of  Tasso.  He  was,  be- 
sides, too  much  of  a  Platonist  to  connect  together  the  links  of  a  diffluult 
argument.  When  he  composed  that  sonnet,  lie  felt  the  inspiratioi^  of 
his  genius,  and  probably  wanted  a  morsel  of  bread  and  a  mistress.'  The 
house  in  which  Lord  Byron  resided  was  situated  at  the  farther  extremity 
of  a  solitary  (quarter,  at  the  distance  of  half  a  league  (Vom  the  Theatre 
de  la  Scala.  The  streets  of  Milan  were  at  that  time  much  infested  with 
robbers  during  the  night.  Some  or  us,  tbrgetting  time  and  space  in  the 
charm  of  the  poet's  conversation,  generally  accompanied  him  to  his  own 
door,  and  on  our  return,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  were  obliged  to 
pass  through  a  multitude  of  intricate,  suspicious-looking  streets.  This 
circumstance  gave  an  additional  air  of  romance  to  the  noble  bard's 
retreat.  For  my  part,  I  often  wondered  that  he  escaped  being  laid  under 
contribution.  Had  it  been  otherwise,  with  his  feelings  and  ideas,  he 
would  undoubtedly  have  felt  peculiarly  mortified.  Thcfact  is,  that  the 
practical  jokes  played  off  by  the  knights  of  the  road  were  frequently  of 
tlie  most  ludicrous  description— at  least  to  all  but  the  sufferers.  The 
weather  was  cold,  and  the  pedestrian,  snugly  enveloped  in  his  cloak, 
was  often  attacked  by  some  dexterous  thief,  who,  gliding  gently  behind 
him,  passed  a  hoop  over  his  head  down  to  his  elbows,  and  thus  fettered 
the  victim,  whom  he  afterward  pillaged  at  his  leisure.  Polidori  informed 
Qs  that  Byron  ofken  composed  a  hundred  verses  in  the  course  of  ilte 
mornmg.  On  his  return  from  the  theatre  in  the  evening,  still  under  the 
charm  of  the  music  to  which  he  had  listened,  he  would  take  up  his  pa- 
pers,  and  reduce  his  hundred  verses  to  five-and-twenty  or  thirty.  When 
he  had  in  this  manner  put  together  lour  or  five  hundred,  he  sent  the 
whole  to  Murray,  his  publisher,  in  London.  He  often  sat  up  all  night, 
in  the  ardour  of  composition,  and  drank  a  sort  of  grog  made  of  hoi- 
lands  and  water— a  beverage  in  which  he  indulged  rather  copiously 
when  his  Muse  was  coy.  But,  generally  speaking,  he  was  not  addicted 
to  excessive  drinking,  though  he  has  accused  himself  of  that  vice.  To 
restrain  the  circumference  of  his  person  within  proper  limits,  he  fre- 
quently went  without  a  dinner,  or,  at  most,  dined  on  a  little  bread  and 
a  solitary  dish  of  vegetables.  This  frugal  meal  cost  but  a  franc  or 
two ;  and  on  such  occasions  Byron  used,  with  much  apparent  compla- 
cency, to  accuse  himself  of  avarice.  His  extreme  sensibility  to  the  charms 
of  music  may  partly  be  attributed  to  the  chagrin  occasioned  by  tiia  do- 
mestis  misfortunes.  Music  caused  his  tears  to  flow  in  abundance,  and 
thus  softened  the  asperity  of  his  suffering.  His  feelings,  however,  on 
this  subject,  were  those  of  a  debutante.  W^hen  he  had  heard  a  new 
opera  for  upwards  of  a  twelvemonth,  he  was  often  enraptured  with  a 
composition  which  had  previously  afforded  him  little  pleasure,  or  which 
he  had  even  severely  criticised.  1  never  observed  Byron  in  a  more  de- 
ligtitful  or  unaffected  vein  of  gayety  than  on  the  day  when  we  made  an 
excursion  about  two  miles  from  Milan,  to  visit  the  celebrated  echo  of  la 
Simonetta,  which  repeats  the  report  of  a  pistol-shot  thirty  or  forty 
times.  By  way  of  contrast,  the  next  day,  at  a  grand  dinner  given  by 
Monsignor  de  BrSme,  his  appearance  was  lowering  as  that  of  Talma  in 
the  part  of  Nero.  Byron  arrived  late,  and  was  obliged  to  cross  a  spa- 
cious saloon,  in  which  every  eye  was  fixed  on  him  and  his  club  foot. 
Far  fVom  being  the  indifferent  or  phlegmatic  personage,  who  alone  can 
play  the  dandy  to  perfection,  Byron  was  unceasingly  tyrannized  by  some 
ruling  passion.  When  not  under  the  influence  of  nobler  failings,  he 
was  tormented  oy  an  absurd  vanity,  which  urged  him  to  pretend  to 
every  tiling.    But  liis  genius  once  awakened,  hisYaults  were  shaken  off 


APPENDIX. 


327 


He  was,  be- 

I  of  a  difnuult 
itspiratioii  of 
istress.'   The 
her  extremity 
I)  the  Theatre 
infested  with 
d  space  in  the 
im  to  his  own 
/ere  obliged  to 
streets.    This 
5  noble  bard's 
iing  laid  under 
J  and  ideas,  he 
act  is,  that  the 
e  frequently  of 
mfferers.    The 
i  in  his  cloak, 
z  gently  behind 
fid  thus  fettered 
olidori  informed 
!  course  of  lUe 
t,  still  under  the 
1  take  np  his  pa- 
ir thirty.   When 
•ed,  he  sent  the 
sat  up  all  night, 
og  made  of  hol- 
rather  copiously 
vas  not  addicted 
»f  that  vice.    To 
r  limits,  he  fire- 
little  bread  and 
t  but  a  franc  or 
ipparent  compla- 
Ity  to  the  charms 
fioned  by  hia  d<^ 
abundance,  and 
jffs,  however,  on 
fad  heard  a  new 
iraptured  with  a 
•asure,  or  which 
>n  in  a  more  de- 
hen  we  made  an 
irated  echo  of  la 
thirty  or  forty 
dinner  given  by 
[hat  of  Talma  in 
to  cross  a  spa- 
jd  his  club  foot. 
[,  who  alone  can 
annixed  by  some 
•bier  failings,  he 
to  pretend  W 
rere  shaken  off 


as  a  garment  that  would  have  Incommoded  the  flight  of  his  imagination : 
the  poet  soared  beyond  the  confines  of  earth,  and  waMed  his  hearers 
along  with  him.    Never  shall  1  forget  the  sublime  poem  which  he  com- 
posed one  evening  on  the  subject  ofC.'astruccio-Casiracani.the  Napoleon 
of  the  middle  age.    Byron  had  one  fViiling  in  common  with  all  poets — 
an  extreme  sensibility  to  praise  or  censure,  especially  when  coming  fVom 
a  brother  bard.    He  seemed  not  to  be  aware,  that  judgments  of  this 
nature  are  generally  dictated  by  a  spirit  of  affectation,  and  that  the  most 
fhvourable  can  only  be  termed  certificates  of  resemblance.    I  must  not 
omit  to  noticii  the  astonishing  effect  produced  on  Lord  Byron  by  the 
view  of  a  fine  painting  of  Daniel  Crespi.    The  subject  was  taken  from 
the  well-known  story  of  a  monk  supposed  to  have  died  m  the  odour  of 
sanctity ;  and  who,  while  his  brethren  were  chanting  the  service  of  the 
dead  around  his  bier  in  the  church  at  midnight,  was  said  to  have  sud- 
denly lifted  the  f\ineral  pall,  and  quitted  his  coffin,  exclaiming,  **Justo 
judicio  Dei  damnatus  sum ."    We  were  unable  to  wrest  Byron  from  the 
contemplation  of  this  ))icture,  which  produced  on  his  miiid  a  sensation 
amounting  to  horror.    To  indulge  his  humour  on  this  ))oint,  we  mounted 
our  horses  in  silence,  and  rode  slowly  towards  a  monastery  at  a  little 
distance,  where  he  shortly  afterward  overtook  us.    Byron  turned  up 
his  lips  with  an  incredulous  sneer  when  he  heard,  for  the  first  time,  that 
there  are  ten  Italian   dialects  instead  of  one;  and  that  atnung  the 
whole  population  of  Italy,  only  the  inhabitants  of  Rome,  Sienna,  and 
Florence  speak  the  language  as  it  is  written.    Silvio  Pellico  once  said 
to  him,  '  The  most  delightful  of  the  ten  or  twelve  Italian  dialects,  un- 
known beyond  the  Alps,  is  the  Venetian.    The  Venetians  nre  the  French 
of  Italy.'    'They  have,  then,  some  comic  poet  living ?'—' Yes,' replied 
Pellico ;  *  a  charming  poet ;  but  as  his  comedies  are  not  allowed  to  be 
performed,  he  compoF«i8  them  under  the  form  of  satires.    The  name  of 
this  delightf\il  poet  is  3uratti ;  and  every  six  months,  by  the  governor'* 
orders,  he  pays  a  visit  to  one  of  the  prisons  of  Venice.'    In  my  nninion, 
this  conversation  with  Silvio  Pellico  gave  the  tone  to  Byron's  sub:)equent 
poetical  career.    He  eagerly  demanded  the  name  of  the  booksel'cr  who 
sold  M.  Buratti's  works ;  and  as  he  was  accustomed  to  the  expression  of 
Milanese  bluntness,  the  question  excited  a  hearty  laugh  at  his  expense. 
He  was  soon  informed,  that  if  Buratti  wished  to  pass  his  whole  life  in 
prison,  the  appearance  of  his  works  in  print  would  infallibly  lead  to  the 
gratification  ofhis  desires ;  and  besides,  where  could<the  printer  be  found 
hardy  enough  to  run  his  share  of  the  risk  ?    An  incomplete  manuscript 
of  Buratti  cost  fVom  three  to  four  sequins.    The  next  day  the  charming 
Comtessina  N.  was  kind  enough  to  lend  her  collection  to  one  of  our  party. 
Byron,  who  imagined  himself  an  adept  in  the  language  of  Dante  and 
Ariosto,  was  at  first  rather  puzzled  by  Buratti's  manuscri^Hs.    We  read 
over  with  him  some  of  Goldoni's  comedies,  which  enabled  him  at  last 
to  comprehend  Buratti's  satires.    One  of  our  Italian  fViends  was  even 
immoral  enough  to  lend  him  a  copy  of  BafTo's  sonnets.    What  a  crime 
this  had  been  in  the  eyes  of  Southey !    What  a  pity  he  was  not,  at  an 
earlier  period,  made  acquainted  with  the  atrocious  deed !    I  persist  in 
thinking,  that  for  the  composition  of  Beppo,  and  subsequently  of  Don 
Juan,  Byrc'i  was  indebted  to  the  reading  of  Buratti's  poetry.    Venice  Is 
a  distinct  world,  of  which  the  gloomy  society  of  the  rest  of  Europe  can 
form  no  conception  :  care  is  there  a  subject  of  mockery.    The  i)oetryof 
Buratti  always  excites  a  sensation  of  enthusiastic  delight  in  tiie  breasts 
of  the  Venetian  populace.    Never,  in  my  presence,  did  black  and  white, 
as  the  Venetians  themselves  say,  produce  a  similar  effect.    Here,  how- 


328 


APPENDIX. 


I.i^ 


'MlJ.  :5i^ 


'■; 


t.  ■ ' 


I .    V 


ever,  I  ccaxed  to  ant  the  part  or  an  oyo-witnest,  and  here,  consequently,  I 
close  my  narrative.*' 

XXXII. 

Letter  from  Fletcher,  Lord  ByrorCs  Valet,  to  Dr.  Kennedy. 

"  Lazaretto,  Zante,  May  19, 1824.- 
•*  Honoiirod  Sir, 

"  I  am  extremely  worry  I  have  not  had  it  In  my  power  to  answer  the 
kind  letter  witli  which  yon  have  honoured  me,  before  tills;  being  so  very 
unwell,  and  so  much  hurt  at  the  severe  loss  of  my  much-esteemed  and 
ever-to-be-lamenied  lord  and  master.    You  wish  me,  sir,  to  give  you 
some  information  in  respect  to  my  Lnnl's  manner  and  mode  of  life  after 
his  departure  from  Cephaloriia,  which,  I  am  very  happy  to  say,  was  that 
of  a  good  Christian ;  and  one  who  fears  and  serves  (iod,  in  doing  all  the 
good  that  lay  in  his  power,  and  avoiding  all  evil.    And  his  charity  was 
always  without  bounds;  for  his  kind  and  generous  heart  could  not  see 
nor  hear  of  misery,  without  a  deep  sigh,  and  striving  in  which  way  he 
could  serve  and  soften  minery,  by  his  liberal  hand,  in  the  most  effectual 
manner.    Were  I  to  montioii  one-hundredth  part  of  the  most  generous 
acts  of  charity,  it  would  All  a  volum".    And,  in  regard  to  religion,  I 
have  every  reason  to  think  the  world  has  been  much  to  blame  in  judg- 
ing too  rashly  on  this  most  serious  and  ittiportant  subject;  for,  in  the 
course  of  my  long  services,  more  than  twenty  years,  I  have  always,  on 
account  of  the  situation  which  1  have  held,  been  near  to  his  Lordship's 
person ;  and,  by  these  means,  have  it  in  my  power  to  speak  to  facta 
which  I  have  many  times  witnessed,  and  conversations  which  I  have 
had  on  the  subject  of  religion.    My  Lord  has  more  than  once  asked  me 
my  opinion  on  his  Lordship's   lite,  whether  I    thought  him  as  re- 
presented in  some  of  the  daily  pa[)ers,  as  one  devoid  of  religion, 
&c.    &c.— words   too  base  to  mention.     My  Lord,   moreover,  said, 
'  Fletclier,  I  know  you  are  what,  at  least,  they  call  a  Christian  :  do  you 
think  me  exactly  what  they  say  of  mo  V  I  said,  *  I  do  not,  for  I  have  too 
just  reasons  to  believe  otherwise.'    My  Lord  went  oh,  on  this  subject, 
saying,  '  I  suppose,  because  I  do  not  go  to  the  church,  I  cannot  any 
longer  be  a  Christian :  but  (ho  said)  moreover,  a  man  must  be  a  great 
beast  who  cannot  be  a  good  Christian  without  being  always  in  the 
church.    I  flatter  myself  I  am  not  inferior  in  regard  to  my  duty  to  many 
of  them ;  for  if  1  can  do  no  good,  I  do  no  harm,  which  I  am  sorry  to  say 
of  all  churchmen.'  At  another  time,  I  remember  it  well,  being  a  Friday, 
1.  at  the  moment  not  remembering  it,  said  to  my  Lord,  •  Will  you  have  a 
fine  plate  of  beccaflcas  V    My  Lord,  half  in  anger,  replied,  *  Is  not  this 
Friday  1  how  could  you  be  so  extremely  lost  to  your  duty  to  make  such 
a  request  to  me !'    At  the  same  time  saying, '  A  man  that  can  so  much 
forget  a  duty  as  a  Christian,  who  cannot,  for  one  day  in  seven,  forbid 
himself  of  these  luxuries,  is  no  longer  worthy  to  be  called  a  Christian.' 
And  I  can  truly  say,  for  the  last  eight  years  and  upwards,  his  Lordship 
always  left  that  day  apart  for  a  day  of  abstinence ;  and  many  more  and 
more  'favourable  proofs  of  a  religious  mind,  than  I  have  mentioned, 
which  hereafter,  if  I  find  it  re(iuisite  to  the  memory  of  my  Lord,  I  shall 
undoubtedly  explain  to  you.  You,  8ir,are  aware,  that  my  Lord  was  rather 
9  man  to  be  wondered  at,  in  regard  to  some  passages  in  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures, which  bis  Lordship  did  not  only  mention  with  confidence,  but 
even  told  you  in  what  chapter  and  what  verse  yoc  would  find  such  and 
such  things,  which  I  recollect  filled  you  with  wonder  at  the  time  and 
with  satisfaction. 
**  I  remember,  even  so  Ions  back  as  when  his  Lordship  was  4t  Vsnioe, 


I   i 


APPENDIX. 


329 


uwquently,  1 

inedy, 
y  19,  \S7A; 

0  answer  the 
being  so  very 
esteemed  and 
r,  to  give  you 
le  of  life  after 
say  I  was  that 
n  doing  all  the 
IS  charity  was 

could  not  see 
which  way  he 
,  mostem^ctual 
most  generous 

1  to  religion,  I 
jlaine  in  judg- 
ict;  for,  in  the 
ave  always,  on 
>  his  Lordship's 

sneak  to  fai'ta 
IS  which  I  have 
\  once  asked  me 
iht  him  as  re- 
oid  of  religion, 
moreover,  said, 
iristian :  do  you 
)t,  for  I  have  too 
on  tills  subject, 
^,  1  cannot  any 
must  be  a  great 
'  always  in  the 
ly  duty  to  many 
am  sorry  to  say 
,  being  a  Friday, 
Will  you  have  a 
lied,  'Is  not  this 
ity  to  make  such 
lat  can  so  much 
in  seven,  forbid 
lied  a  Christian, 
ds,  his  Lordship 
'  many  more  and 
lave  mentioned, 
my  Lord,  I  shall 
Lord  was  rather 
the  Holy  Sorip- 
,  confidence,  but 
lid  find  such  and 
at  the  time  and 

IpwasatVamoe, 


■everal  circumstances  which  must  remove  every  doubt,  even  at  the 
moment  when  my  I^rd  was  more  gay  ihiin  at  any  time  after.  In  the 
year  1817,  I  hav«  seen  my  Lord  repeatedly,  on  meeting  or  passing  any 
religious  ceremonies  which  the  Roman  Catholics  have  in  their  frequent 

K recessions,  while  at  Nivia,  near  Venice,  dismount  his  horse  and  full  on 
is  knees,  and  remain  in  that  posture  till  the  procession  had  passed: 
and  one  of  his  Lordsiiip's  grooms,  who  was  backwards  in  following  the 
example  of  his  Lordship,  my  Lord  gave  a  violent  reproof  to.  The  man, 
in  his  defence,  said,  '1  am  no  (.'atholic,  and  by  this  means  thought  I 
ought  not  to  follow  any  of  their  ways.'  My  Lord  answered  very 
sharply  upon  the  subjcct.saying,  ♦  Nor  am  I  a  Catholic,  but  a  Christia::; 
which  I  should  not  be,  were  I  to  make  the  same  objections  which  you 
make ;  for  all  religions  are  good,  when  i)roperly  attended  to,  without 
making  it  a  mask  to  cover  villuny,  which  I  am  fully  persuaded  is  too 
often  the  case.'  With  respect  to  my  Lord's  late  publications  which  you 
mention,  I  am  ftiMy  persuaded,  when  they  come  to  be  more  fully  ex- 
amined, the  passages  which  have  been  so  much  condcnmed,  may  prove 
Bometning  dark ;  but  I  am  fully  persuaded  you  are  aware  how  much  the 
public  mind  has  been  deceived  in  the  true  state  of  my  lamented  master. 
A  greater  friend  to  Christianity  could  not  exist,  I  am  l\illy  convinced ; 
in  his  daily  conduct,  not  only  making  the  Bible  his  first  companion  in 
the  morning,  but,  in  regard  to  whatever  religion  a  man  might  be  of, 
whether  Protestant,  Catholic,  Friar,  or  Monk,  or  any  other  religion, 
every  priest,  of  whatever  order,  if  in  distress,  was  always  most  libe- 
rally rewarded,  and  with  laricer  sums  than  any  one  who  was  not  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel,  I  think,  would  give.  I  think  every  thing  com« 
bined  together  must  prove,  not  only  to  you,  sir,  but  tu  the  public  at 
large,  that  my  Lord  was  not  only  a  Christian,  but  a  good  Christian. 
How  many  times  has  my  Lord  said  to  me,  'Never  judge  a  man  by  his 
clothes,  nor  by  his  going  to  church,  being  a  good  Christian.  I  suppose 
you  have  heard  that  some  ]>eople  in  England  say  that  I  am  no  Chris- 
tian V  I  said,  *  Yes,  I  have  certainly  heard  such  things  by  some  public 
prints,  but  I  am  l\illy  convinced  of  their  falsehood.'  My  Lord  said,  'I 
know  I  do  not  go  to  church,  like  many  of  my  accusers ;  but  I  have  my 
hopes  I  am  not  less  a  Christian  than  they,  for  God  examines  the  inward 
part  of  the  man,  not  outward  appearances.'  Sir,  in  answer  to  your 
inquiries,  I  too  well  know  your  character  as  a  true  Christian  and  a  gen- 
tleman, to  reftise  giving  you  any  farther  information  res^iecting  what 
you  asked  of  me.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  seen  my  Lord  frequently 
read  your  books ;  and,  moreover,  I  have  more  than  once  heard  my  Lord 
apeak  in  the  highest  terms  of,  and  receive  you  in  the  most  fi'iendly 
manner  possible,  whenever  you  could  make  it  convenient  to  come  to 
Metaxata ;  and  with  regard  to  the  Bible,  I  think  I  only  may  refer  to  you, 
sir,  how  much  his  Lordship  must  have  studied  it,  by  being  able  to  refler 
to  almost  any  passage  in  Scripture,  and  with  what  accuracy  to  mention 
even  the  chapter  and  verse  in  any  part  of  the  Scripture.  Now,  had  my 
IjOrd  not  been  a  Christian,  this  book  would  most  naturally  have  been 
thrown  aside,  and  of  course  he  would  have  been  ignorant  of  so  many 
fine  passages  which  I  have  heard  him  repeat  at  intervals,  when  in  the 
midst  of  his  last  and  fatal  illness.  I  mean  after  he  began  to  be  deli- 
rious. My  Lord  repeated, '  I  am  not  afraid  to  die ;'  and  in  as  composed 
a  way  as  a  child,  without  moving  head  or  foot,  or  even  a  gasp,  went  as 
if  he  was  going  into  the  finest  sleep,  only  opening  his  eyes  and  then 
shutting  them  again.  I  cried  out,  '  I  fear  his  Lordship  is  gone  "  when 
the  doctors  felt  his  pulse,  and  said  it  was  too  true.    I  must  say  1  am 

Ee2 


i** 


330 


APPENDIX. 


extremely  miserable,  to  think  my  Lord  might  have  been  saved  had  the 
doctors  done  their  duty,  by  letting  biood  in  time,  or  by  stating  to  me  that 
my  Lord  would  not  allow  it,  and  at  the  same  time  to  tell  me  the  truth 
of  the  real  state  of  my  Lord's  illness :  but  instead  of  that,  they  deceived 
me  with  the  false  idea  that  my  Lord  would  be  better  in  two  or  three 
days,  and  thereby  prevented  me  fVom  sending  to  Zante  or  Cephalonia, 
which  I  repeatedly  wished  to  do,  but  was  prevented  by  them,  I  mean 
|he  doctors,  deceiving  me :  but  I  dare  say  you  have  heard  every  particu- 
lar about  the  whole ;  if  not,  I  have  no  objection  to  give  every  particular 
during  his  illness. 

"  I  hope,  sir,  your  kind  intentions  may  be  crowned  with  success,  in 
regard  to  the  publication  which  you  mean  to  bring  before  the  British 
public.    I  must  beg  your  pardon  when  I  make  one  remark,  and  which 
1  am  sure  your  good  sense  will  forgive  me  for,  when  I  say  you  know  too 
well  the  tongues  of  the  wicked,  and  in  particular  of  the  great,  and  how 
glad  some  would  be  to  bring  uiio  ridicule  any  one  that  is  of  your  reli* 
gious  and  good  sentiments  of  a  Aituiie  state,  which  every  good  Christian 
ought  to  think  his  first  and  greatest  duty.    For  myself,  I  should  be  only 
too  happy  to  be  converted  to  the  truth  of  the  Gospel.    But  at  this  time, 
I  fear  it  would  be  doing  my  Lord  more  harm  than  good,  in  publishing  to 
the  world  that  my  Lord  was  converted,  which  to  that  extent  of  religion 
my  Lord  never  arrived ;  but  at  the  same  time  was  a  (Viend  to  both  reli- 
gion and  religious  people,  of  whatever  religion  they  might  be,  and  to 
none  more,  or  more  justly  deserving,  than  Dr.  Kennedy. 
"  I  remain,  honoured  sir, 

"  With  the  greatest  respect, 

"  Your  most  obedient  and  very  humble  Servant, 
(Signed)  «  WM.  FLETCHER. 

"  Dr.  Kennedy,  &c.  &c. 
Cephalonia." 

XXXIII. 

Letter  from  Lord  Byron  to  Yusrtff'^Pashaw, 

«♦  Highness ! 

"  A  vessel,  in  which  a  friend  and  some  domestics  of  mine  were  em- 
barked, was  detained  a  few  days  ago,  and  released  by  order  of  your 
Highness.  I  have  now  to  thank  you,  not  for  liberating  the  vessel, 
which,  as  carrying  a  neutral  flag,  and  being  under  British  protection,  no* 
one  had  a  right  to  detain,  but  for  having  treated  my  firiends  with  so  much 
kindness  while  they  were  in  your  hands. 

"  In  the  hope,  therefore,  that  it  may  not  be  altogether  displeasing  to 
your  Highness,  I  have  requested  the  governor  of  this  place  to  velease 
four  Turkish  prisoners,  and  he  has  humanely  consented  to  do  so.  I  lose 
no  time,  therefore,  in  sending  them  back,  in  order  to  make  as  early  a 
return,as  I  could  for  your  courtesy  on  the  late  occasion.  These  prisoners 
are  liberated  without  any  conditions ;  but  should  the  circumstance  find 
a  place  in  your  recollection,  I  venture  to  beg  that  your  Highness  will 
treat  such  Greeks  as  may  henceforth  Mi  into  your  hands  with  humanity ; 
more  especially  since  the  horrors  of  war  are  sufficiently  great  in  them- 
selves, without  being  aggravated  by  wanton  cruelties  on  either  side. 
(Signed)  «' NOEL  BYRON 

^  MissoIongUii  SSd  January,  1824." 


APPENDIX. 


331 


ived  had  the 
ng  to  me  that 
me  the  truth 
they  deceived 
two  or  three 
ir  Cephalonia, 
them,  I  mean 
every  partlcu- 
ery  particular 

th  success,  in 
>re  the  British 
irk,  and  which 
'  you  know  too 
great,  and  how 
is  of  your  reli» 
good  Christian 
should  be  only 
tut  at  this  time, 
in  publishing  to 
ttent  of  rehgion 
md  to  both  reli- 
ight  be,  and  to 


humble  Servant, 
FLETCHER. 


vv. 

mine  were  em- 
»y  order  of  your 
ting  the  vessel, 
ih  protection,  no ' 
ds  with  so  much 

sr  displeasing  to 
■place to  release 
to  do  so.  I  lose 
nake  as  early  a 
These  prisoners 
ircumstance  find 
r  Highness  will 
.with  humanity; 
y  great  in  them- 

I  either  side. 

>EL  BYRON 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

The  figure  which  this  ancient  edifice  cuts  in  the  memoirs,  as  well  as 
in  the  works,  of  the  poet,  malves  it  almost  essential  that  this  work  should 
contain  some  account  of  it.  I  am  indebted  to  Lake's  Life  of  Lord  Byron 
for  the  following  particulars : — 

"This  Abbey  was  founded  in  the  year  1170,  by  Henry  IL,  as  a  Priory 
of  Black  Canons,  and  dedicated  to  the  Virgin  Mary.    It  continued  in 
the  family  of  the  Byrons  until  the  time  of  our  poet,  who  sold  it  first  to 
Mr.  Claughton,  for  the  sum  of  140,000/.,  and  on  that  gentleman's  not 
being  able  to  fhlfll  the  agreement,  and  paying  20,000/.  of  a  forfeit,  it  was 
afterward  sold  to  another  person,  and  most  of  the  money  vested  in  trus- 
tees, for  the  jointure  of  Lady  Byron.    The  greater  part  of  the  edifice  still 
remains.    The  present  possessor,  Major  Wildman,  is,  with  genuine  taste, 
repairing  this  beautiful  (specimen  of  Gothic  architecture.    The  late  Lord 
Byron  repaired  a  considerable  part  of  it,  but  forgetting  the  roof,  he 
turned  his  attention  to  the  inside,  and  the  consequence  was,  that  in  a 
few  years,  the  rain,  penetratins  to  the  apartments,  soon  destroyed  all 
those  elegant  devices  which  his  Lordship  had  contrived.    Lord  Byron's 
own  study  was  a  neat  little  apartment,  decorated  with  some  good  classic 
busts,  a  select  collection  of  books,  an  antique  cross,  a  sword  in  a  gilt 
case,  a.id  at  the  end  of  the  room  two  finely-polished  sculls,  on  a  pair  of 
light  fancy  stands.    In  the  garden,  likewise,  there  was  a  great  number 
of  these  sculls,  taken  from  the  burial-ground  of  the  Abbey,  and  piled 
up  together,  but  they  were  afterward  recommitted  to  the  earth.     A 
writer,  who  visited  it  soon  after  Lord  Byron  had  sold  it,  says,  '  In  one 
corner  of  the  servants'  hall  lay  a  stone  coffln,  in  which  were  fencing- 
gloves  and  foils,  and  on  the  walls  of  the  ample  but  cheerless  kitchen 
was  painted,  in  large  letters,  'waste  not— want  not.'    During  the  mi- 
nority of  Lord  Byron,  the  Abbey  was  in  the  possession  of  Lord  G— ,  his 
hounds,  and  divers  colonies  of  jackdaws,  swallows,  and  starlings.    The 
internal  traces  of  this  Goth  were  swept  away,  hut  without,  all  appeared 
as  rude  and  unreclaimed  as  he  could  have  lefl  it.    With  the  exception 
of  the  dog's  tomb,  a  conspicuous  and  elegant  object,  I  do  not  recollect 
the  slightest  trace  of  culture  or  improvement.    The  laie  lord,  a  stem 
and  desperate  character,  who  is  never  mentioned  by  the  neighbouring 
peasants  without  a  significant  shake  of  the  head,  might  have  returned 
and  recognised  every  thing  about  him,  except  perhaps  an  additional  crop 
of  weeds.    There  still  slept  that  old  pond,  into  which  he  is  said  to  have 
hurled  his  lady  in  one  of  his  fits  of  fury,  whence  she  was  rescued  by 
the  gardener,  a  courageous  blade,  who  was  his  lord's  master,  and  chas- 
tised him  for  his  barbarity.    There  still,  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  in  a 
grove  of  oak,  are  two  towering  satyrs,  he  with  his  goat  and  club, 
and  Mrs.  Satyr  with  her  chubby  cloven-footed  brat,  placed  on  pedestals, 
at  the  intersections  of  the  narrow  and  gloomy  pathways,  strike  for  a 
moment,  with  their  grim  visages  and  silent  shaggy  forms,  the  fear  into 

Jrour  bosom  which  is  felt  by  the  neighbouring  "peasantry,  at  '  th'  oud 
aird's  devils.'  I  have  frequently  asked  the  country  people  what  sort  of 
a  mr.n  his  Lordship  (our  Lord  Byron)  was.  The  impression  of  his  ec- 
centric but  energetic  character  was  evident  in  the  reply.  '  He 's  the 
devil  of  a  fellow  for  comical  fancies— he  flags  th'  oud  laird  to  nothingf 
))Ut  Ue  19  a  hearty  good  fellow  for  all  that.'  ** 


333 


APPENDIX. 


Horace  Walpole  (Earl  of  Orford),  -who  had  visited  Newstea 4,  givee, 
in  his  usual  bitter  sarcastic  manner,  the  Tnllowing  account  of  U: 

"As  I  returned,  I  saw  Newstead  and  Aithorp.  I  like  both.  The  for- 
mer is  the  very  abbey.  The  great  east  window  of  the  church  remains, 
and  connects  with  the  house ;  the  hall  entire ;  the  refectory  entire ;  the 
cloister  untouclied,  with  the  ancient  cistern  of  the  convent,  and  their 
arms  on  it:  it  has  a  private  chapel,  quite  perfect.  The  park,  which  is 
still  charming,  has  not  been  so  much  unprofaned.  The  present  Lord 
has  lost  large  sums,  and  paid  part  in  old  oaks,  five  thousand  pounds 
worth  of  which  have  been  cut  near  the  house.  En  revench,  he  has  built 
two  baby-forts  to  pay  his  country  in  castles,  for  damage  done  to  the  navy, 
and  planted  a  handiUl  of  Scotch  firs,  that  look  like  ploughboys  dressed 
in  old  family  liveries  for  a  public  day.  In  the  hall  is  a  very  good  eo\- 
lection  of  pictures,  all  animals.  The  refectory,  now  the  great  drawing- 
room,  is  full  of  Byrons :  the  vaulted  roof  remaining,  but  the  windows 
have  new  dresses  making  for  them  by  a  Venetian  tailor." 

The  following  detailed  description  of  Byron's  paternal  abode,  is  ex- 
tracted iVom  "  A  Visit  to  Newstead  Abbey  in  1828,"  in  the  London  Lite- 
rary Gazette : 

"  It  was  on  the  noon  of  a  cold  bleak  day  in  February,  that  I  set  out  to 
visit  the  memorable  abbey  of  Newstead,  once  the  property  and  the 
abode  of  the  immortal  Dyron.  The  gloomy  state  of  the  weather,  and  the 
dreary  aspect  of  the  surrounding  country,  produced  impressions  more  ap- 
propriate to  the  views  of  such  a  spot,  than  the  cheerflil  season  and  scenery 
of  summer.  The  estate  lies  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  high  north 
road,  eight  miles  beyond  Nottingham ;  but  as  I  approached  the  place,  I 
looked  in  vain  for  some  indication  of  the  abbey.  Nothing  is  seen  but  a 
thick  plantation  of  young  larch  and  firs  bordering  the  road,  until  you 
arrive  at  the  hut,  a  small  public-house  by  the  wayside.  Nearly  oppo- 
site to  this  is  a  plain  white  gate,  without  lodges,  0|)ening  into  the  park ; 
before  stands  a  fine  spreading  oak,  one  of  the  few  remaining  trees  of 
Sherwood  forest,  the  famous  haunt  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  associates, 
which  once  covered  all  this  part  of  the  country,  and  whose  county  was 
about  the  domain  of  Newstead.  To  this  oak,  the  only  one  of  any  size 
on  the  estate,  Byron  was  very  partial.  It  is  pretty  well  known  that  his 
great  uncle  (to  whom  he  succeeded)  cut  down  almost  all  the  valuable 
timber;  so  that,  when  Byron  came  into  possession  of  the  estate,  and, 
indeed,  the  whole  time  he  had  it,  it  presented  a  very  bare  and  desolate 
appearance.  The  soil  is  very  poor,  and  fit  only  for  the  growth  of  larch 
and  firs ;  and  of  these  upwards  of  700  acres  have  been  planted.  Byron 
could  not  aflbrd  the  first  outlay  which  was  necessary,  in  order  ultimately 
to  increase  its  worth ;  so  that  as.long  as  he  held  it,  the  rental  did  not 
exceed  1300/.  a-year.  From  the  gate  to  the  abbey  is  a  mile.  The  car- 
riage road  runs  straight  for  about  three  hundred  yards  through  the  plan- 
tations, when  it  *akes  a  sudden  turn  to  the  right ;  and  on  returning  to 
the  left,  a  beautifXil  and  extensive  view  over  the  valley  and  distant  hills 
is  opened  with  the  turrets  of  the  abbey,  rising  among  the  dark  trees  be- 
neath. To  the  right  of  the  abbey  is  |)crceived  a  tower  on  a  hill,  in  the 
midst  of  a  grove  of  firs.  From  this  part  the  road  winds  gently  to  the 
left  till  it  reaches  the  abbey,  which  is  approached  on  the  north  side.  It 
lies  in  a  valley,  very  low ;  shelternd  to  the  north  and  west  by  rising 
ground,  and  to  the  south  enjoying  a  fine  prospect  over  an  undulating 
vale.  A  more  secluded  spot  could  hardly  have  been  chosen  for  the  pious 
purposes  to  which  it  was  devoted.  To  the  north  and  east  is  a  garden, 
wailed  in ;  and  to  ttie  west  the  uppei  lake.    On  the  west  aide,  the  nuuu 


APPENDIX. 


333 


Btead,  giT«e, 

h.   Thefor- 
rch  remains, 
y  entire ;  the 
nt,  and  their 
irk,  which  is 
;)resent  Lord 
isand  pounds 
,  he  has  built 
B  to  the  navy, 
boys  dressed 
'ery  good  col- 
reat  drawing- 
the  windows 

abode,  is  ex* 
London  Lite* 

at  I  set  out  to 
erty  and  the 
ather,  and  the 
iions  more  ap- 
>n  and  scenery 
le  high  north 
id  the  place,  I 
r  is  seen  but  a 
oad,  until  you 
Nearly  oppo- 
linto  the  park; 
ning  trees  of 
tis  associates, 
le  county  was 
B  or  any  size 
nown  that  his 
1  the  valuable 
e  estate,  and, 
e  and  desolate 
owih  of  larch 
inted.    Byron 
der  ultimately 
rental  did  not 
le.    The  car- 
lugh  the  plan- 
returning  to 
distant  hills 
lark  trees  be- 
a  hill,  in  the 
gently  to  the 
lorth  side.    It 
est  by  rising 
[n  undulating 
for  the  pious 
|t  is  a  garden, 
Ide,  ttu)  man* 


gion  is  without  any  enclosure  or  garden-drive,  and  can  tlierefore  be 
approached  by  any  person  passing  through  the  park.  In  this  open  space 
is  the  ancient  cistern,  or  fountain,  of  the  convent,  covered  with  grotesque 
carvuigs,  and  having  water  still  running  into  a  basin.  The  old  church- 
wijidow,  which,  in  an  architectural  point  of  view,  is  most  deserving  of 
observation,  is  nearly  entire,  and  adjoins  the  north-west  corner  of  the 
abbey.  Through  the  iron  gate  which  opens  into  the  garden  under  the 
arch,  is  seen  the  dog's  tomb ;  it  is  on  the  north  side,  upon  a  raised 
ground  and  surrounded  by  steps.  Jhe  verses  inscribed  on  one  side  of 
the  pedestal  are  well  known,  but  the  lines  preceding  them  are  not  so. 
They  run  thus : 

Near  this  spot 

Are  deposited  the  remains  of  one 

Who  possessed  Beauty  without  vanity, 

Strength  without  insolence, 

Courage  without  ferocity. 

And  all  the  virtues  of  Man  without  his  vices. 

This  praise,  which  would  be  unmeaning  flattery 

If  inscribed  over  human  ashes, 

Is  but  a  just  tribute  to  the  memory  of 

Boatswain, a  doff, 

Who  was  born  at  Newfoundland,  May,  1803, 

And  died  at  Newstead,  November  18th,  1808. 

•♦  The  whole  edifice  is  a  quadrangle,  enclosing  a  court,  with  a  reservoir, 
and  jet  cfeau  ..  the  middle ;  and  the  cloisters  still  entire,  running  round 
the  four  sIolR.     'l .,  =50uth,  now  the  principal  front,  looks  over  a  plea- 
sure-garden t('     :  -1  /.  lake,  which  has  been  opened  from  the  upper  one, 
since  Byron's  ;     ■      rhe  entrance-door  ia  on  the  west,  in  a  small  vesti- 
bule, and  has  nothing  remarkable  in  it.  On  entering,  I  came  into  a  large 
stone  hall,  and  turning  to  the  left,  went  through  it  to  a  smaller  one,  be- 
yond which  is  the  staircase.    The  whole  of  this  part  has  been  almost 
entirely  rebuilt  by  Colonel  Wildman;  indeed,  during  Byron's  occupa- 
tion, the  only  habitable  rooms  were  some  small  ones  in  the  south-east 
angle.    Over  the  cloister,  on  the  four  sides  of  the  building,  runs  the 
gallery,  from  which  doors  open  into  various  apartments,  now  fitted  up 
with  taste  and  elegance,  for  the  accommodation  of  a  family,  but  then 
empty,  and  fast  going  to  decay.    In  one  of  the  galleries  hang  two  oil- 
paintings  of  dogs,  as  large  as  life ;  one,  a  red  wolf-dog,  and  the  other  a 
black  Newfoundland,  with  white  legs,  the  celebrated  Boatswain.   They 
both  died  at  Newstead.    Of  the  latter,  Byron  felt  the  loss  as  of  a  dear 
fViend.    These  are  almost  the  only  paintings  of  Byron's  which  remain 
at  the  abbey.    From  the  gallery,  1  entered  the  refectory,  now  the  grand 
drawing-room ;  an  apartment  of  great  dimensions,  facing  south,  with  a 
fine  vaulted  roof  and  polished  oak  floor,  and  splendidly  furnished  in  the 
modern  style.    The  walls  are  covered  with  full-length  portraits  of  the 
old  school.    As  this  room  has  been  made  fit  for  use,  entirely  since  the 
days  of  Byron,  there  are  not  those  associations  connected  with  it  which 
are  to  be  found  in  many  of  the  others,  though  of  inferior  appearance. 
Two  objects  there  are,  however,  which  demand  observation.    The  first 
that  caught  my  attention  was  the  portrait  of  Byron,  by  Phillips,  over 
the  fireplace,  upon  which  I  gazed  with  strong  f&elings ;  it  is  certainly 
the  handsomest  and  most  pleasing  likeness  of  him  I  have  seen.    The 
other  is  a  thing  about  which  every  body  has  heard,  and  of  which  few 
bave  any  just  idea.    In  a  cabinet  at  the  end  of  the  room,  carefully  pre- 


H' 


if,* 


I?" ' 


''  r^i'^ 


334 


APPENDIX. 


served,  and  concealed  in  a  sliding  case,  is  kept  the  celebrated  scull  cup» 
upon  wliicli  are  inscribed  tiiose  splendid  verses : 

Start  not,  nor  deent  my  spirit  fled,  &c. 

"  People  often  suppose,  ft-om  tlie  name,  that  the  cup  retains  all  the  ter- 
rific appearances  or  a  death's  head,  and  imagine  tliat  they  could 

Behold  through  each  lack-lustre  eyeless  hole 
Tlie  gay  recess  of  wisdom  and  of  wit. 

Not  at  all ;  there  is  nothing  whatever  startling  in  it.  It  is  well  polished, 
its  edge  is  bound  by  a  broad  rim  of  silver,  and  it  is  set  in  a  neat  stand  or 
the  same  meial,  which  serves  as  a  handle,  and  u|ion  tlie  Tuur  sides  of, 
which,  and  not  upon  the  scull  itself,  tlie  verses  are  engraved.  It  is,  in 
short,  in  appearance,  a  very  hamlsomc  utensil,  and  one  frnm  which  the 
most  fastidious  person  might  (in  my  opinion)  drink  without  scruple.  It 
was  always  produced  after  dinner,  wlien  llyron  had  company  at  the 
Abbey,  and  a  bottle  of  claret  jwiired  into  it.  An  elegant  round  library- 
table  is  the  only  article  of  furniture  in  this  room  that  belonged  to  Uyron, 
and  this  he  constantly  used.  Ileyond  the  refectory,  on  tl  e  same  tloor, 
is  Kyron's  study,  now  used  as  a  temporary  dining-room,  the  entire  fur* 
niturc  of  which  is  the  same  tliat  was  used  by  him.  It  is  all  very  plain, 
indeed  ordinary.  A  good  painting  of  a  battle,  over  the  sideboard,  was 
also  his.  'I' his  apartment,  ))crhnps.  beyond  all  others,  deserves  tie  at- 
tention of  the  pilgrim  to  Ncwstend,asmorc  intimately  connected  with  the 
poetical  existence  of  liyron.  It  was  here  tl  at  he  prepared  for  the  press 
tl  osc  first  efTusions  of  his  genius  which  were  published  at  Newark, 
under  the  title  of  Hours  of  Idleness.  It  was  here  that  he  meditated, 
planned,  and  for  the  most  part  wrote,  that  splendid  rctuit  to  the  severe 
crititjues  iliey  had  called  down,  which  8tam|icd  I  im  as  the  keenest 
sal  irist  of  tlie  day.  And  it  was  here  tliat  his  tender  and  beautiful  verses 
to  Mary,  and  many  of  those  sweet  |)ieces  found  among  his  miscellaneous 
poems,  were  coni|ioscd.  His  bed-room  is  small, p.,  id  still  remains  in  the 
same  state  as  when  he  occupied  it ;  it  contains  iiiile  worthy  of  notice, 
besides  titc  bed,  which  is  of  coirimon  si/e,  witi*  gilt  posts,  surmounted  by 
coronets.  Over  the  fireplace  is  a  picture  of  Murray,  the  old  family  ser- 
vant who  accompanied  Ilyron  to  Gibraltar,  when  he  first  went  abroad. 
A  picture  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  another  imrtrait  in  this  room,  complete  the 
enumeration  of  all  the  furniture  or  paintings  3f  Hyron*s  remaining  at 
the  Abbey.  In  some  of  the  rooms  are  very  curiously-carved  mantel- 
pieces, with  grotesi|ue  figures,  evidently  of  old  date,  lit  a  corner  of  one 
of  the  galleries  there  still  remained  the  fencing  Ibils,  gloves,  masks,  and 
single-sticks  he  used  in  h  s  ynutli ;  and  in  a  corner  of  the  cloister  lies  a 
stone  coflin,  taken  from  the  burial-ground  of  the  abbey.  The  ground- 
fioor  contains  some  simcious  iialls,  and  divers  apartments  for  domestic 
ofilcc8,and  there  is  a  neat  little  private  chapel  in  the  cloister,  where  ser- 
vice is  iicrformed  on  Sundays,  llyron's  sole  recreation  here  was  his 
boat  and  dogs,  and  boxing  and  fbncing  for  exercise,  and  to  prevent  a 
tendency  to  obesity,  which  he  dreaded.  His  constant  employment  was 
wriiing,  for  which  he  used  to  sit  up  ns  late  as  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning.    Ilia  life  here  was  an  entire  seclusion,  devoted  to  poetry  " 


THE   END* 


A  scull  cup, 


TO  THE  PUBLIC. 


mall  the  ter- 
ould 


veil  polishcil, 
neat  siand  of 
four  sides  or, 
vcd.    It  is,  in 
im  whit'h  the 
It  s«nn»le.    It 
mpany  at  tlie 
round  library- 
iged  to  Uyron, 
16  same  Hoor, 
the  entire  Jur- 
al 1  very  iilain, 
lidcbourd,  was 
!8crvc8tle  at- 
icrted  with  the 
•d  for  tlie  press 
■d  at  Newark, 
L  he  meditated, 
I  to  the  severe 
ts  the  keenest 
eautiful  verses 
miscellaneous 
remains  in  the 
rihy  of  notice, 
urmounied  by 
d  family  ser- 
went  abroad, 
fi,  complete  the 
5  remaining  at 
'arved  mantel- 
_a  corner  of  one 
es,  masks,  and 
cloister  lies  a 
The  pround- 
ts  for  domestic 
tcr,  where  scr- 
here  was  hia 
10  prevent  a 
iployment  wa« 
i  o'clock  in  the 
to  poetry  " 


**  Books  that  you  may  carry  to  the  fire,  and  hold  readUy  in  your  htandi 
art  the  most  useful  after  all.  A  man  mU  often  look  at  them,  and  b» 
tempted  logo  on,  when,  he  would  have  been  frightened  at  bodes  qfa  largsr 
size,  and  q/a  more  emdite  appearance.** —  Dr.  Joumbom. 


The  proprietors  of  the  Family  Library  feel  themselTea  ttimulated  to 
Increased  exertions  by  the  distinguished  favour  with  which  it  has  already 
been  received. 

The  volumes  already  before  the  public  may  be  confidently  appealed  to 
as  proofs  of  zeal  on  the  part  of  the  proprietors  to  present  to  their  readera 
a  series  of  productions,  which,  as  they  are  connected,  not  with  ephemenilr 
but  with  permanent  subjects,  may,  years  hence  as  well  as  now,  be  coa 
suited  for  lively  amusement  as  well  as  solid  instruction. 

To  render  this  Library  still  more  worthy  of  patronage,  the  publisli* 
ers  propose  incorporating  in  it  such  works  of  interest  and  value  M 
may  appear  in  the  various  Libraries  and  Miscellanies  row  preparing  in 
Europe,  particularly  the  *'■  National"  and  the  "  Edinburgh  Cabinet"  Libra* 
ries.  All  these  productions,  as  they  emanate  (Yom  the  i'>ress,  will  be 
submitted  to  a  committee  of  literary  gentlemen  for  inspectiun ;  and  none 
will  be  reprinted  but  such  as  shall  be  found  calculated  to  sustain  the 
exalted  character  which  this  Library  has  already  acquired. 

SevemI  well-known  authors  have  been  engaged  to  prepare  for  it  origin^ 
works  of  an  American  character,  on  History,  Biography,  Travels,  dec.  ice. 

Every  distinct  subject  will  in  general  be  comprehended  in  one  volunui 
or  at  most  in  three  voluiues,  which  may  form  either  a  portion  of  thi 
Beri<es  or  a  complete  work  by  itself;  and  each  volume  will  be  embellishei 
with  appropriate  engravings. 

The  entire  series  will  be  the  production  of  authors  of  eminence,  who 
have  acquired  celebrity  by  their  literary  labours,  and  whose  names,  as 
they  appear  in  succession,  will  afford  the  surest  guarantee  to  the  puUiS 
(br  the  satisfactory  manner  in  which  the  subjects  will  be  treated. 

Such  is  the  plan  by  which  it  is  intended  to  form  an  American  Famili 
Library,  comprising  all  that  is  valuable  in  those  brandies  of  knowledgi 
which  most  happily  units  entertainment  with  instruction.  The  utinosl 
care  will  be  taken,  not  only  to  exclude  whatever  can  have  an  injurious 
influence  on  the  mind,  but  to  embrace  every  thing  calculated  to  strengthen 
the  best  and  most  salutary  impressions. 

With  these  arrangements  and  fhcilities,  the  publishers  flatter  them* 
selves  that  they  shall  be  able  to  present  to  their  fellow-citizens  a  work 
of  unparalleled  merit  and  cheapness,  embracing  subjects  adapted  to  all 
classes  of  readers,  and  forming  a  body  of  literature  deserving  the  praise 
of  having  instructed  many,  and  amused  all ;  and  above  every  other  spe* 
cies  of  eulogy,  of  being  fit  to  be  introduced,  without  reserve  or  exception, 
by  the  father  of  a  fhmily  to  the  domestic  circle.  Meanwhile,  the  very  low 
price  at  which  it  is  charged  renders  more  extensive  patronage  necessary 
for  its  sup{iort  and  prosecution.  The  immediate  encouragement,  there- 
fore, of  those  who  approve  its  plan  and  execution  is  respectfully  solicited. 
The  work  may  be  obtained  in  complete  sets,  or  in  separate  nu(nb«ni| 
fixMn  the  principal  booksellers  throughout  the  United  8tates. 


¥      1?.^' 


#,. 


t-' 


it:'. 


HARPER'S  FAMILY  LIBRARY. 

The  following  opinions,  selected  fVom  highly  respectable  Journals,  ^^I 
enrJilr  those  who  are  unaciiuiiiuted  with  the  Family  Library  to  form  an 
c5Uniate  of  its  merits.  Numerous  otlier  notices,  eciual.'y  favourable,  and 
from  sources  equally  respectable,  mij^ht  be  pre.-j«iiled  if  deemed  necessary. 

"  Tlie  Family  Library.— A  very  excellent,  and  always  entertaining  Mis- 
cellany.''— Edinburgh  Review,  No.  103. 

"  Tne  Family  Library  presonts,  in  a  compendious  and  convenient  form, 
well-written  histories  of  popular  men,  kingdoms,  scieuces,  &c.  arranged 
and  edited  by  able  writers,  and  drawn  entirely  from  the  most  correct  and 
accredited  authorities.  It  is,  as  it  professe  :i  to  be,  a  Family  Library,  fVom 
which,  at  little  expense,  a  household  may  prejtare  themselves  for  a  con- 
sideratTon  of  those  elementary  subjects  of  education  and  society,  without  a 
due  acquaintance  with  wliich  neither  man  nor  woman  has  claim  to  be 
well  bred,  or  to  take  their  proper  place  among  those  with  whom  they 
abide." — Charleston  Gazette. 

"  We  have  repeatedly  borne  testimony  to  the  utility  of  thin  work.  It  is 
one  of  tlie  best  that  has  ever  been  issued  from  the  American  press,  and 
should  be  in  the  library  of  every  family  desirous  of  treasuring  up  uiseful 
knowledge." — Boston,  Statesman. 

"  The  Family  Library  should  be  in  the  hands  of  every  person.  Thus 
far  it  has  treated  of  subjects  interesting  to  all,  condensed  in  a  perspicuous 

and  agreeable  style We  .lave  so  repeatedly  spoken  of  the  merits  of  the 

design  of  this  work,  and  of  the  able  manner  in  which  it  is  edited,  that  on 
,  this  occasion  we  will  only  repeat  our  conviction,  that  it  is  worthy  a  place 
in  every  library  in  the  country,  and  will  prove  one  of  the  most  useAil  as 
it  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  publications  which  has  ever  issued  from 
the  American  press." — N.  Y.  Courier  if  Enquirer. 

"  The  Family  Library  is,  what  its  name  implies,  a  collection  of  various 
original  works  of  the  best  kind,  containing  reading,  useful  and  interesting 
to  the  family  circle.  It  is  neatly  printed,  and  should  be  in  every  family 
that  can  afford  it— the  price  being  moderate." — New- England  Palladium. 

'*  The  Family  Library  is,  in  all  respects,  a  valuable  work."— Penrwyi* 
vania  Inquirer. 

"  We  are  pleased  to  see  that  the  publishers  have  obtained  sufficient  en- 
couragement to  continue  their  valuable  Family  Library." — Baltimore  Re- 
publican. 

"  We  recommend  the  whole  set  of  the  Family  Library  as  one  of  tha 
cheapest  means  of  affording  pleasing  instruction,  and  imparting  a  proper 
pride  in  books,  with  which  we  are  acquainted." — Philadelphia  U.  S.  Oa- 
,  zette. 

"  It  will  prove  instructing  and  amusing  to  all  classes.  We  are  pleased 
to  learn  that  the  works  comprising  th>3  Library  have  become,  as  they 
ought  to  be,  quite  popular  among  the  heads  of  Families." — N.  Y.  Gazette. 

"It  is  the  duty  of  every  person  having  a  family  to  put  this  excellent 
Library  into  the  hands  of  his  children."— iV.  Y.  Mercantile  Ailuertiser. 

"  We  have  so  often  reconmie.ided  this  enterprising  and  useful  publica- 
tion (.he  Family  Library),  that  we  can  here  only  jtdd,  that  each  succes- 
sive numb -r  appears  to  confirm  its  merited  j)opularity."— iV.  Y.  American. 

"  It  is  so  emphatically  what  it  purports  to  be,  that  we  are  anxious  to  see 
it  in  every  family. — It  is  alike  interesting  and  useful  to  all  classes  of 
readers." — Albany  Evening  Journal. 

"  The  little  volumes  of  this  series  truly  comport  with  their  title,  and  are 
in  themselves  a  Family  Library." — N.  Y.  Coinmercial  Advertiser. 

•'  We  iiave  met  with  no  work  more  interes'ang  and  deservedly  popular 
than  this  valuable  Family  Library." — Mo'iihly  Repository. 

''  Tlie  plan  of  the  Family  Library  must  be  acceptable  to  the  /^unerican 
reading  community." — N.  Y.  Journal  of  Commerce. 

*'  To  all  iiortions  of  the  community  the  entire  series  ina>  be  warisly 
recommended."- .,i7/*t!ncft/i  Traveller. 

"  It  IS  a  delightful  publication."— 7Vu<A  Teller, 


:Y. 

le  Journals,  \H1I 
rary  to  form  an 
'  favourable,  and 
em&\  necessary, 
iirertaining  Mia- 

convenient  form, 
es,  &c.  arranged 
most  correct  and 
ily  Library,  from 
selves  for  a  con- 
ociety,  without  a 
{  bas  claim  to  be 
gviih  whoth  they 

thiH  work.  It  is 
irican  press,  and 
suring  up  lueful 

•y  person.  Thus 
in  a  perspicuous 
the  merits  of  the 
is  edited,  that  on 
is  worthy  a  place 
le  most  useftil  as 
ever  issued  from 

lection  of  various 
\i{  and  interesting 
e  in  every  family 
and  Palladium. 
vork."— Pcnrwyi* 

ined  sufflcient  en-> 
"—Baltimore  Re- 

ary  as  one  of  the 
mparting  a  proper 
delpliia  U.  S.  Ga- 

,  We  are  pleased 
I  become,  as  they 
"— iV.  Y.  Gazette, 
put  this  excellent 
tile  Advertiser. 
nd  useful  publica- 
that  each  succes-' 
-  N.  Y.  American. 
are  anxious  to  see 
to  all  classes  of 

their  title,  and  are 

Advertiser. 

leservediy  popular 

yry. 

le  to  the  ^jinerlcan 

ss  ma>  be  warisly 


'»■}. 


